Snapshots Left on the Negative
by Panache
Summary: Simple version? Five conversations Leslie and Ben have in formal wear; But of course life is always more complicated than that .
1. Chapter 1

**Snapshots Left on the Negative**

Author's Note: This was started for Hiatus Fest, where sweetiegrrl2346 asked for Ben and Leslie in formal wear so that Ben could admire Leslie in her beautiful gown. I wound up writing it entirely from Leslie's pov and turned it into . . . well this. This is a lengthier story (18,000 plus words). The first two parts have been posted on my livejournal for awhile and I was going to hold off posting here until the final part was up on livejournal but the opening section involves a spec scene on 'Fancy Party' which will not come true, so I thought I'd start posting before the episode airs.

Summary: Simple version? Five conversations Leslie and Ben have in formal wear. (But of course life is always more complicated than that).

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

**April and Andy's Dinner Party**

April and Andy insist everyone come to their party in evening wear because they want it to be "classy and awesome." They serve pizza and Buffalo wings on paper plates, and champagne in crystal flutes April steals from her parents china cabinet when they realize it's either that or straight from the bottle because Andy forgot to get paper cups.

This should pretty much tell you everything you need to know about the evening.

Oh, one more thing.

Ben kisses her in the upstairs bathroom.

She's not entirely sure how that happens.

Really, she's not. She remembers the champagne. Remembers the fairly epic game of charades. Remembers the buffalo wings . . .

Oh wait, no, that's how.

For the record, her and buffalo wings and five glasses of champagne _and _charades . . . maybe not the best combination.

She finds him in the upstairs bathroom after almost walking in on Jerry in the downstairs one (_don't ask, she doesn't want to relive it_). Ben's already shed his suit jacket and tie and even in the candlelight April's using to hide the fact she didn't really do pre-party cleaning, Leslie can still see the bright red smears where she flipped the entire plate of wings onto him.

"Hey, I found seltzer." She offers feebly, because honestly it feels pretty paltry in the face of such absolute destruction.

"Thanks."

If you asked her later she wouldn't be able to tell you why she doesn't just leave it with him. Why she proceeds to flick on the bathroom lights, grab a clean towel from the rack, and start carefully blotting the front of his shirt with the seltzer water. Maybe it's the champagne or maybe it's him or maybe it's just that Leslie's never been one to leave other people to clean up her messes.

Ben doesn't seem to mind. Relinquishes control without protest and just stands there watching her with that funny smile he gets sometimes, like he's not quite sure what to think of her, like he's half-convinced she might just be crazy and he can't decide if that's a bad thing.

"I am _so _sorry."

"Hey, no I get it. Yellowstone National Park. Old Faithful was really your only charade option."

"It was." She nods emphatically, and then because that makes the room spin just a little bit, drops her forehead to his shoulder to steady herself. "It is also possible I am too drunk to be safely playing national landmark charades."

"Oh, so you're blaming the champagne now?"

She lulls her head to the side, slanting her gaze up to him to ask with all seriousness, "Think I could get away with it?"

"I don't know. I really liked this shirt."

Absently she curls her fingers against the fabric, and nods in agreement. "Me too." And she's not lying even a little bit. There's something about it, about the off-white on white check, that feels like him—seemingly buttoned up and boring, but look a little closer and there's that little piece irrepressible spirit peaking through. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

For a moment Ben just looks down at her, strangely intent and wow maybe this was his favorite shirt too. Maybe it's custom or a gift from some long lost love. Maybe he's been spending too much time with Tom and it's designer and super-expensive. Maybe . . .

Without looking away, Ben reaches out and flicks the bathroom light back off, leaving them standing there in candlelight.

"What are you doing?"

"Blaming the champagne."

And then he tilts her chin and dips his head and even though it kind of feels inevitable, like a script that was written months ago, it's still a surprise, still somehow entirely unexpected.

His mouth butterflies against hers like a question, like an experiment, and Leslie sighs in a way that might be a 'yes.'

The thing is she's not one-hundred percent sure exactly what's happening right now. Oh she's got the mechanics down, understands the grand outline of being kissed at a party with too much alcohol and too little food, in a house that's not yours, in clothes that make you feel like someone else. It's one of those moments where it's half about setting and half about timing and only a little bit about what's real.

Still there's something about the gentleness of his fingers on her neck, about the way they fit, that makes her think she's a little fuzzy on some of the more important details, feels like she missed a memo or a meeting.

Before she has the chance to ask for a more complete briefing, there's the sound of foot-steps in the hall and they're both pulling away like they've been burned.

By the time she gets home that night Leslie's half-convinced herself she made it up

And even if she didn't. There was an awful lot of champagne.

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

**Pawnee Memorial Hospital Christmas Fundraiser**

It's the first event of what promises to be a long and exhausting and absolutely wonderful Holiday season. For the next few weeks Leslie has a list of obligations that makes her day planner feel a little bit like the White House social calendar. Sometimes she just stares at it, at all the invitations pinned up on her bulletin board, at the steadily growing collection of business cards in her rolodex, and it's everything she can do not to pinch herself. (_Tom keeps telling her to start using her Smartphone like a "member of the Twenty First Century" but she likes the paper. Likes the tangible proof that yes this is really happening._)

Her mother calls an hour before the event to run down the guest list with interesting tidbits and important pieces of personal information. ("_His son just made dean's list at Notre Dame." "Don't bring up animals, Mike was attacked by a raccoon last week and can't sit down." "They're getting a divorce. She'll get everything, and she wants to be a force in her own right, mention Camp Athena"_). And even though she won't use half the information she's been given because it's just not her style, Leslie can't help the little swell of joy as she realizes this Machiavellian pep-talk is her mother's version of an 'I'm so proud of you' speech.

Still she keeps the pencil scratched notes in her purse, touching them every so often like a talisman as she makes her way around the room, mentally ticking off the key names in her head. According to Marlene Griggs-Knope philanthropic dinners are networking gold-mines, the chance to connect with all the important players in local politics in a quasi-non-political setting.

And that's exactly what she's doing. She's circulating and laughing and telling pre-prepared charming stories that remind people of her accomplishments just enough to make herself register, but not so much as to be obnoxious.

And she is absolutely not thinking about the fact Ben is standing over in the corner, in a tux, watching her do that.

Absolutely. Not. Thinking. About. It.

Damn. That's not working.

Things have been awkward between them in the few weeks since Andy and April's party, since he may or may not have kissed her in a candlelit bathroom, and then never said another word about it. And she maybe resents him a little bit for that. Because what kind of guy does that? What kind of guy kisses you after you ruined his favorite shirt and takes a job in your hometown and then proceeds to turn down casual dinner invitations, but still brings you waffles when you're working late and doesn't actually say anything?

But the thing that really gets her? The thing that makes her just want to strangle him?

Leslie hasn't said anything either.

She promised herself, _promised _herself this wasn't going to happen again. After Mark. After so stupidly and uselessly holding on to a moment, a mistake like it was something precious. After realizing she'd built a memory into something it had never been, she told herself she'd never do it again. Vowed that she wouldn't let something like this just fester, that she'd be mature and reasonable and forthright.

Whatever she and Ben are doing right now, it is absolutely none of those things.

And frankly it's kind of pissing her off.

Which probably explains why even though she should be going over to make nice with the VP of Kernston's, she is instead dragging Ben out the side-exit of the ballroom and into one of the hotel stairwells.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses as soon as the door closes behind her.

"Proving I still haven't figured out how to say no to Chris."

"All you do is say no to Chris."

"I say no to other people for Chris. It's a subtle but important distinction."

"Arrggh!" She would choke him with his bowtie right now if she could.

"I'm sorry is there something about me representing the City Manager's office at this event that's pissing you off?"

She dodges the question. "I thought Chris loved these things. Connecting with everyone."

"He does. He loves them so much he accepts invitations to more events than its possible for him to be at without breaking the laws of physics. Which is why he's in Indy this evening representing Pawnee, and I am here representing Chris." He spreads his hands in a little half-hearted 'ta-da' that somehow sums up the full extent of his lack of enthusiasm for the assignment. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work."

He tries to reach for the door handle but Leslie doesn't move from her spot in front of it because she's finally got up the courage to do this. Because if she lets him go now, she knows she's never going to be here again. Because she's wearing an honest-to-god evening-gown and the clock's striking midnight and if Cinderella had just stood her damn ground she probably could have saved herself a lot of heartache.

"Leslie-" Ben pleads.

"You kissed me."

It sounds strange to say it out loud. Because she's held on to it like a secret for weeks now, something special and hers and only half-remembered, and as long as it stayed like that, exactly like that, it could mean anything she wanted it to.

But now it hangs there between them, given substance and contours and shape, and for a moment she's half-afraid he's going to deny it. Plead drunkenness or ignorance or temporary loss of sanity. But he doesn't. Instead he sucks in a sharp, shocked breath and nods.

"I did."

"And it wasn't just the champagne."

"No. It wasn't." His voice is thick and raw, and when she meets his eyes the air suddenly feels charged, electric and for a surreal moment she swears he's about to do it again.

She jerks her head away. "You can't do that. You can't just randomly kiss someone with no explanation. It's rude."

Ben drops his forehead against the door, and she can feel a tremor go through him, and then another and another. And suddenly it hits her.

He's laughing.

Hysterically, silently laughing.

But it's not with happiness or joy or anything she recognizes. This is manic, corrupt. Like his body's hijacked it to take the place of a scream or a sob, used it to give physicality to some emotion too new to have an expression all its own.

Without thinking she reaches out and puts her hands on either side of his ribcage, like she'll somehow hold him together, keep the pieces from shaking apart.

Ben moves to step away but she doesn't let go because this isn't done, and then his hands are on her bare shoulders to push her off and she's fisting a hand in his shirt to hold on . . . and then he's pulling her forward, his mouth slamming down onto hers.

And what the hell?

It's the polar opposite of last time. In fact it's pretty much the polar opposite of every kiss in her entire life. Needy and reckless and frantic. It's storms coming and dams breaking. He's got her pinned against the stairwell door, and his fingers are tangled in her hair, destroying her chignon, and there is absolutely no way she'll be able to step a foot back out there without everyone knowing what just happened.

And then it's over just as abruptly as it begins. She doesn't know whether he breaks off or she pushes him away or some combination of the two, but suddenly he's a foot away and she's holding onto the door handle like a life line and they're both staring at each other in disbelief.

This is hands down the most irresponsible thing she's ever done.

And she's so angry with him for putting her in this position she could spit.

And she'll tell him that just as soon as she remembers how to breathe.

Ben finds his voice first. "I'm sorry. Leslie- I shouldn't have- I'm so sorry."

She gives him a second and then another. Because there's an explanation here. Because he's not this kind of guy. Because he hires children's singers away from libraries and wears horrible plaid shirts and pretends to be excited about miniature horses. And guys like that just don't do things like this.

But he's not saying anything else and maybe they do.

"Okay," she nods once, "Okay. You know what. I'm not doing this. I don't know exactly what just happened. But I know it can't happen again."

"No it can't," Ben whispers, but he doesn't sound happy about it.

That makes her turn back around. "No. See this is where I get confused. Because you kissed me. I remember that part. And if you didn't like it, if it was weird or a mistake. I get that. In fact I get that a lot. Usually with a funny story I can use to cheer up my friends. But you! You keep showing up. You come to my office, and you bring me waffles, and you smile at me like . . . I don't know. But I know that if you thought it was a mistake you shouldn't be smiling at me like that. And now you're here and in formal wear and watching me and kissing me in stairwells. And why? Why couldn't we have just come together like normal people? What is your problem?"

"My problem?" He practically chokes on the words.

"Yes!"

"Why did you tell me to take the job when Chris offered it to me?"

"Because I didn't want you to leave!"

Ben just stares at her in disbelief. Like she's psychotic, like she's sucker-punched him, and it doesn't make any sense until he whispers, "Leslie, I'm in your direct-reporting line."

And suddenly with a horrid clarity she understands.

"You report to Ron," Ben continues. "All directors of all non-essential city government departments-"

"Report to the deputy city manager," she finishes for him feeling incredibly stupid. She knew this, of course she knew this. Even though they haven't had a deputy manager for over a year, she's had every organizational chart memorized since the day she first joined the parks department. But she never put it together, never stopped thinking of Ben as hers, and even now she has to make herself say the words one more time to really believe it, to force it to sink in. "All non-essential departments including, Parks and Recreation, report to you."

He gives her a tight strained smile. "Even if it wasn't against policy, Chris frowns on relationships within reporting lines. I approve your budget. I set your department's performance benchmarks. I review your evaluations, your disciplinary actions. Hell, I sit on the promotions review board." He drops his head back against the wall and stares up at the landing above them. "This crosses every line of professionalism I can think of."

"Then why did you take it?"

"Because you told me to. Because I wanted to stay. Because I didn't actually think-" he breaks off with a sigh.

"Didn't think what?"

"I didn't think it would feel like this."

He looks at her as he says it, and it's like something's squeezing her heart, pressing down on it so hard it's stopped beating and until it starts again, she can't do anything other than stand here and ache.

"I never thought-" Ben starts, break offs, start again, "I thought six months. I figured I'd give it the six months Chris was assigned for, give us a chance to get to know each other better, and then maybe, if I got really lucky, you'd be interested and we'd figure something out. I'd, I don't know, change offices, find something else, hope a regional position came open. I was buying time."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You told me to take the job the day after I kissed you." He shoves his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. "Leslie, you know the Pawnee municipal code and city policy manuals by heart. What was I supposed to think? Honestly, I almost turned it down because of that."

"But you didn't."

"It's executive administrative experience. And-" he shrugs, "you asked me to stay."

He says that last part so simply, like it's actually a reason, like it explains everything, and she can't decide whether she wants to hit him or kiss him. But then the realization that it's inappropriate for her to do either washes over her and she thinks she might scream.

"You know the worst part?" Ben whispers.

Leslie shakes her head, because honestly, how could it actually get any worse?

"I really like the work."

And that's it, that's the thing that finally makes her lose it. Because she understands, god how she understands. Her job is everything. It's her whole world, her defining characteristic. Take that away and what do you have? She doesn't really know, but she's thinks she would be somehow less, something diminished.

Public service is the only thing she's ever wanted in her whole life.

And the man standing across from her could take that all away.

They both know that. Know it would go badly for both of them, but worse for her. Because she's theoretically subordinate, because she has a less transferable skill set, because she's a woman. It's unfair and it sucks and is such double standard she can't stand it. But it is what it is, and if Ben's taught her anything, it's that ignoring the reality of a situation doesn't solve the problem.

So he stands in the stairwell less than two feet away, white-knuckling his hands on the banister and watching her cry. And he might as well be in Indy for all the good that does her.

"Leslie- Leslie, just tell me what you want."

_Quit. _It's there just on the tip of her tongue before she's actually processed the thought, and then she does and the audacity of it startles her, makes her bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep it from coming tumbling out unbidden, squeeze her eyes shut.

He makes it sound so impossibly simple, when really they both know it's simply impossible. She can't ask him to quit, even if he wanted to. Not when he's less than a few weeks in. That's a career-destroying move. He certainly wouldn't find another job in Pawnee. And things are finally happening for her, the kind of things she's always dreamed of, that she's worked her whole life for.

So there's really only one solution, isn't there?

And it might be the first time in her life she's ever just accepted that something she truly wants is actually out of reach, and she'd only just gotten Ben to stop accepting it so easily and the whole thing feels like some horribly, unfunny practical joke.

Leslie shakes her head. "We can't."

"No. We can't," he agrees.

"If anyone found out . . ."

"Even if they didn't," Ben sighs and it hurts how perfectly she understands him. For all their superficial opposition at their core they're the same, flip-sides of a coin. They believe in things like service and standards and never, never thinking you're too special for the rules you uphold.

She says it for him. "The rules are there for a reason. I've always believed that."

"Me too."

"We can't just ignore them," and there's the tiniest part of her that wants him to argue, to persuade her that they can, of course they can.

But all he does is tighten his grip on the hand rail and shake his head. "No. I mean it would taint everything, wouldn't it? That's not- That's not how I want to start something with you."

And someday, looking back, Leslie Knope will know this is the moment she fell inextricably, irrevocably in love with Ben Wyatt.

But right now it just hurts.

"Okay," she breathes, because what else can she do? "Okay. So six months, right? We give it until Chris's time is over and Paul comes back. I mean that was your plan all along. So we do that. We can do that. We can stay friendly and professional and pretend this didn't happen . . ."

She trails off at the look in Ben's eyes, the one that says he desperately wants to kiss her, and she knows they're both lying to themselves.

"Ben?"

He blinks and runs a tired hand over his face and up into his hair, barking a sharp laugh. "Right. This didn't happen."

"So six months?"

"Six months."

"It's not that long."

He gives her a half-hearted smile. "Over before we know it."

But the thing they're not saying, the thing still hanging between them, is in six months nothing will be magically solved, and in six months everything might change.

And she swears to god if she lets herself think about that a split second longer, she's not going to leave this stairwell.

"So I um. I have to go find a mirror, and possibly a stylist," she turns to go.

"You look beautiful."

Her hand stalls out on door handle. "You can't say things like that."

"I know."

"You absolutely cannot say things like that. Not when my hair's a mess and my mascara's running and I'm pretty sure my face is red. You're not allowed to think I'm beautiful right now."

"I know." He repeats, and then she can feel him come up behind her, not close, not really, but near enough that she could reach back and touch him. She clenches her free hand tight. He sighs. "I just- I've never said it. I've thought it a hundred times when you've looked a hundred different ways. And you don't even know."

The last words are soft, an exhale of breath that she swears she feels more than hears. "Ben-"

He takes a step back, but he doesn't stop. "You say it to Ann all the time, like its fact, like its gospel that of the two of you she's the beautiful one. And it's not. It's not my gospel. I think you're breathtaking. You walk into a room, and I can't even tell you if Ann is there. And I'm sorry but six months is too long for you to go without knowing that."

She swallows hard, but doesn't turn around. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And it feels hollow and meaningless and not at all an accurate representation of how his confession makes her feel, but what else is she supposed to say? Honestly how could she possibly respond without unraveling every resolution they've just made?

"Ben?"

"Yeah."

"I've got at least ten more of these events. I can't remember them all right now, but I need- I need you to figure out how to tell Chris no. Okay?"

A pause, a beat, an infinitesimal moment of possibility, then:

"Send me your schedule."

Leslie slips out without looking back.

She doesn't return to the fundraiser.

Later when she's washed her face and tamed her hair, when she's collected her coat and made her way out to the hotel parking lot, she looks up to find Ben walking down the next row over, coat in hand. They don't say anything, just keep walking along their respective rows, separated by two car lengths and silence. But maybe he slows down and maybe she speeds up and maybe it's a little bit like a moonlit stroll.

Then suddenly she's at her car and the beep of her alarm sounds like a gunshot and they both just stop. Just stand there.

Absently her thumb skitters over the button for the passenger side lock. Pauses. Hesitates.

Ben doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't do anything other than look at her, but somehow it feels like he knows.

Somewhere in the distance there's the beep of a car horn.

Ben turns his head.

Leslie reaches for her car door.

.

She makes a point not to look in her rearview mirror as she drives away—half afraid he'll still be standing there, half afraid he won't be.

.

The Rotary Club's Community Awards dinner is two days later.

Chris shows up.


	2. Chapter 2

**iii. **

**Governor's Honorees Reception**

The Christmas season comes and goes, and true to his word the only event on her schedule Ben comes to is the Government Follies, but of course everyone's there and it would be conspicuous if he wasn't. Besides she's sitting with the Parks Department, and he's wearing a corduroy blazer and an awful shirt that could actually be called "Christmas Plaid" and it feels safe somehow, manageable.

The department adds a Holiday arts and crafts fair to this year's Tree Lighting, and Leslie uses it to power through her entire gift list in one day—handmade jewelry for Ann, leather gloves for Tom, a cigar box for Ron. There's a local photographer who set up a booth at the end, and he's got a panoramic night shot of the Harvest Festival he's cut and framed into three separate pieces—a dizzying triptych of color and joy and infinite possibility—and all she can think of is the blank wall behind Ben's desk and how this was made to go there and how she can't give it to him.

She buys it anyways.

Tucks it in an already too-full closet and tells herself: Next year.

[]

She changes his primary number on her speed dial from cell to work, adds his last name to the simple 'Ben' in her phonebook, and removes the picture from his profile. The first time "Ben Wyatt – Pawnee City Government" pops up on her screen he feels so far-away she wants to cry.

[]

Over the next few months they settle into a kind of holding pattern, a stasis comprised of a dozen self-imposed boundaries, a hundred unwritten rules.

They can eat lunch together in the court-yard but never more than twice a week and never planned.

He can come out to the Snakehole Lounge, but he arrives with Tom and she leaves with Ann and they count their drinks like misers.

She's doesn't ask where his new apartment is. He's doesn't tell her.

He comes out at ten p.m. one night in March to find her standing in the parking lot staring at two flat tires (_Pikitis! Damn Spring Break._), and he calls Triple-A, and waits with her on the steps of City Hall for an hour and never once suggests that he give her a ride.

[]

He still brings her waffles when she's working late.

She still goes out of her way to invite him to all the official Parks Department events.

Tiny slips, just tiny slips.

But they already teeter so close to the edge.

[]

It's early May when they almost lose their balance.

They're putting together the Master Plan for the coming fiscal year, and Ben has to sit down with her to finalize all the numbers for the new Observatory before they break ground. It's a complicated long-term investment and their workdays spill into evenings, spill into nights. They fall into their old rhythm like the Harvest Festival was yesterday—bicker and laugh and debate in a way that's familiar and comfortable and all too easy.

And maybe their carefully drawn lines get smudged.

It's past midnight, and they're in probably the tenth round of what they both know will be a twelve round fight on the revenue level from the Observatory the Parks Department can reasonably expect to see over time. He's obviously low-balling her, and okay maybe she's high-balling him, but the point is his numbers are wrong.

And she is right in the middle of telling him that, and he's in the middle of reminding her that initial interest almost always has a predictable rate of decay, and it is very possible she takes a dry-easer to his projected calculations just on general principle. (_Because you can't calculate the wonder of the stars, Ben_).

Apparently this is not a persuasive argument (_though she thought it had poetry_), because he's up on his feet and trying to take the eraser away, and she's trying to get to the column on maintenance costs, and he grabs and she dodges and takes off out of the conference room and he follows and it's a magnificent game of keep away.

Right up until the moment he catches her.

Leslie miscalculates and gets herself cornered behind Ron's desk, tries for a feint, but Ben still has a little of his shortstop quickness and he moves with her, shooting a hand out to block her escape and the next thing she knows he's got her trapped against the wall hemmed in by his arms on either side.

"Hand it over."

Really the look on his face is entirely too smug, and there's only one option dignity will afford her. She raises the eraser above her head. "Come and take it."

For a second she knows Ben intends to do just that. He takes a deliberate step forward and reaches up to grab at the eraser, and she tenses her arms to hold on because honor is at stake here, and then . . .

Nothing.

The flat of Ben's hand lands against the wall with a crack that makes her jump.

Leslie lowers her arms and steps away. He lets her go.

She puts the eraser down on the windowsill like an apology. "It's late. We should, um, we should call it a night."

For a second his whole body seems to sag, and he looks so weary that she just wants to wrap her arms around him, hold him up. Then Ben sighs, straightens and everything snaps back into place.

"Yeah." He rubs tiredly at the side of his face, "Yeah. We can finish this up tomorrow. I'll get you some notes in the morning."

She stays in Ron's office while he gathers up his things and leaves without saying goodbye.

The next day Ben emails her the redlined section for the observatory, and she drops off her handwritten notes with his assistant.

It takes them a week to really start talking again.

And she thinks the end of June can't come soon enough.

[]

As is the way of things six months somehow slide into seven and then eight when nobody's looking. And suddenly it's late August, and Chris is still here.

It's apparent that Paul won't be coming back to work. Mid-June his recovery took a turn for the worst and the City sent flowers and set up a search committee and asked Chris to stay on in the interim while they looked for a permanent replacement.

Chris said fantastic.

Ben didn't say much of anything.

And Leslie tells herself to be grateful because none of the other city departments have anything open that wouldn't put him to sleep in three hours, and the State is systematically downsizing all its regional offices, and he actually goes for an interview at Sweetums even though they both know he'd hate it. And at least this way he's still here, still buying time.

Besides, he's so good at the job he has.

The search committee drags its collective feet, because of course what everyone knows but isn't saying is they want Chris to be the replacement. And Chris speaks with enthusiasm about the town and the work and makes encouraging statements and somehow avoids committing to anything.

"Does he want more money?" she asks Ben one morning, when they're doing this thing they do now, where they come in before everyone and walk the halls coffee in hand and only ever talk about work and pretend it's enough.

Ben shrugs. "I don't think so. I mean everyone wants more money, but that's not really the sticking point."

"So what is?"

"He wants carte blanche to reorganize."

Leslie shakes her head, "That's-"

"Not gonna happen. I know. I keep telling him that. It's only been a year since we came, and we took some pretty severe steps then. The town needs a chance to settle. Chris is too used to Indy where everything moves as fast as he does. Pawnee," he stops and looks up at the mural of the magician being burned at the stake and smiles, "well, you guys kind of have your own speed, don't you?"

Leslie bites her lip and doesn't say anything, but she crosses the fingers of her opposite hand and prays that the search committee won't ever think to turn their heads, to shift their gaze just one chair over and see Ben sitting there.

She hates herself for doing it, but it doesn't stop her.

[]

It turns out to be the wrong wish.

[]

The Governor's Office holds a reception in Indianapolis to honor outstanding public works projects over the past year and Pawnee is getting a surprising amount of attention from a man that has not once come to see them on a campaign swing. But a 'pulled themselves up by their bootstraps' story is a 'pulled themselves up by their bootstraps' story even if most the city's residents would have to have their boots custom-made to fit around their extra-large calves.

The reception takes place on the garden terrace of the Oldfields-Lilly House, taking advantage of the pleasant summer breeze and the way the sun lingers late into the evening (_one of the few advantages to being on the back-end of the Eastern Time Zone. Ridiculously late winter sunrises being the primary negative_). Ann helps her pick out a pearl gray cocktail dress that avoids the expected black but still feels professional and pair of wedge heeled flats that will let her keep her balance on the grass, and she spends the entire week leading up to it making Tom help her practice her handshake so it will be perfect if she gets to meet the Governor.

Ron doesn't go this time. (_"Leslie, Mulligan's is closed. That city is dead to me"_) But the Mayor's office and the City Manager's team and lots of other people, who actually had very little to do with the Harvest Festival at all, do.

Well, lots of other people and Ben.

And they already feel so fragile, so precarious, that she almost gives her spot to Tom. Almost asks Ben not to go.

But the Harvest Festival was theirs, and they both deserve this.

By the end of the evening, she's pretty much forgotten her earlier concerns entirely. Mayor Gunderson's chief of staff attaches herself to Leslie's side from the moment she walks in, looking her over with a critical eye that makes Leslie want to check if she got chocolate on her cocktail dress on the way over.

But apparently she passes muster once she follows the directive to 'lose the scarf', because the next few hours are a whirl of introductions and carefully arranged photographs with people she's only ever seen in the paper, and Mayor Gunderson shakes her hand (_Three times! There are pictures!_), and she only catches the barest glimpse of Ben over at the edge of the terrace deep in conversation with a short balding man she doesn't recognize.

"So Leslie," Mayor Gunderson claps her on the shoulder. (_Oh god, the mayor knows her name. Her real name. Not the Chelsea he's been calling her for the past two hours. Oh this might just be the best day of her entire life_). "You gonna help us out with our problem, Leslie?"

"Absolutely!"

"Wonderful. I look forward to working with you, Chelsea."

Wait.

But he's already moved away to join another conversation. She turns back to stare up at Evelyn Roushland. "I'm sorry, what just happened?"

"Against the Mayor's explicit wishes, Councilman Dexhart has announced that he intends to seek reelection. You've just agreed to challenge his seat. Congratulations," she adds with about as much enthusiasm as she might have said 'I hit your dog' or 'You have a traumatic brain injury.' "Here." She hands Leslie a business card. "When you get to Pawnee we'll sit down and go over strategy. Our biggest asset, of course, will be image. Specifically yours. You've got this very wholesome but competent thing going that is, well frankly everything Dexhart isn't. So we'll need to go over your history and make sure there aren't any potential landmines. Anyway call me on Monday and we can get started."

And then she's gone and Leslie's left holding a two by three-and-half-inch, embossed, ivory card-stock, ticket to her dreams.

She can't believe this is really happening.

The reception's winding down and people are peeling off, breaking away in smaller groups to go back to their hotels, to continue conversations in more private settings, to simply enjoy a night out on the town. And it's probably exactly the time when she should be avoiding Ben, but she doesn't think about that, doesn't think about anything other than telling him, because with perhaps the exception of Ann there's no one else she wants to share this with more.

He's standing over with Chris and the balding gentleman she'd seen earlier. They're shaking hands obviously saying a few last goodbyes, and she comes up just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

". . . talk some sense into this one for me, will you, Chris? I'm sure Pawnee's lovely, but you can't keep him to yourself forever and we both know what an opportunity it would be."

"Absolutely. Absolutely. It's a fantastic opportunity. I literally cannot tell you how excited I am for him."

Neither one of them seems to notice that Ben doesn't seem particularly excited at all, and a slow crawl of foreboding starts to make its way up Leslie's spine.

"I'm sorry? What opportunity?"

"Leslie Knope!" Chris turns and touches her arm, bringing her into the fold like she was exactly the person he'd been looking for. "Craig, this is Leslie Knope. Leslie is the brilliant mind behind the Harvest Festival and the new Observatory we're building with that revenue. She is absolutely the embodiment of all the things that make Pawnee literally the best place to live. Leslie this is Craig Richards, the best State Budget Director in the nation."

Craig holds out a hand and gives her warm smile. Somehow she forces herself to return the gesture. He seems like a very nice man. Leslie thinks she's going to hate him.

"I was just telling Chris here that he needs to convince your Deputy City Manager to come back to work for me again. Really Ben heading a Regional Office would put you in the perfect position to take over for Julianne when she retires in a year or two."

Or maybe not.

"A regional office! That's fantastic. I mean we'd all hate to lose him in Pawnee. But if he'll just be over in Eagleton-"

Craig laughs, "No, I want to give him South Bend. It's the only regional office we're keeping open, but he'll handle the entire Northwest area from the Chicago suburbs on down which means when the Commissioner for Local Government Finance retires in a few years time, he'll be the ideal man for the job. Talk him into it for me would you?"

Leslie just nods dumbly without saying anything. She feels like someone's pulled the floor out from under her, like she's in free fall and the vertigo is making her nauseous.

Somewhere in the distance, people are speaking, saying goodbyes, jingling car-keys. Somewhere far away life is going on. But she's still falling, and she can't seem to stop.

There's a feather-light touch at her back, tethering her, pulling her back to reality. "Hey." Ben whispers, "You okay?"

She shakes her head.

"Okay. Okay, just hold on."

He jogs over to Chris who Leslie has just now realized is halfway down the outside stairs that lead to the parking lot, and she doesn't know what is going on, but after a few seconds he's back. "I told Chris you weren't feeling well, so I was going to drive you back to your hotel. If he ever asks tell him you had a bad cream puff or something."

"Isn't it usually the shrimp?"

"Chris eats those."

"Oh."

And honestly she really does feel like she might have eaten something that didn't agree with her, if it wasn't for the fact that she hasn't had the chance to eat anything tonight.

Ben leads her over to one of the benches by the house and sits down beside her, looking out at the caters packing up the warming trays, at the last summer blooms on the hedges, at the stars. At anything other than her. "I'm sorry. That wasn't the way I wanted you to find out about Craig's offer."

"How um, how long have you known about it?"

He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, stares down at his hands. "He called me yesterday. I've spent the last twenty-four hours trying to just, I don't know, process it."

"Is it really as good an opportunity as Craig says it is?"

And she doesn't know what she expects, what she's hoping for. Maybe that he'll suddenly realize that it's actually a terrible offer and Craig is just trying to trap him in some dead-end job. But Ben just nods.

"It is. It's actually-" he gives a shaky laugh, and runs a hand over his face, "A year ago I would have accepted it before Craig got the words out. It's exactly what he says. Good experience, a fantastic stepping stone. The fact that he's talking about two years down the road to Julianne's retirement is just-"

He breaks off, as if suddenly conscious of what he's saying, how he's saying it. But it doesn't matter, Leslie's already seen everything she needs to. He _wants _this. It's like someone's lit him up from the inside. Validated his entire career in one masterstroke.

"You'd take it. If it wasn't for me, you'd have said yes already."

He shakes his head in a way that isn't a yes, but isn't a no either, and turns to look at her, his eyes pleading with her to understand. "Leslie, I didn't ask for this. You have to know I never went looking for it."

And it's not an answer. Except for the part where it is.

Without thinking she reaches over and lays a hand on his back, drops her head to the curve of his neck. And she doesn't care that they're outside, doesn't care about the caterers or whether someone comes back from the parking lot looking for their purse or their keys or whatever. Doesn't care about anything but this man and all the months she's wasted not being with him.

Ben cups a hand to her cheek, presses his face into her hair, and groans, "Leslie- Please-"

She's not even sure he knows what he's asking for, but she nods all the same.

Taking her hand in his, he gets up from the bench and starts to lead her off the terrace. But instead of taking the steps to the parking lot like she expects, he turns the other way, leading her down an opposite set she hadn't paid much attention to earlier.

"What are-"

But he holds a finger up to his lips, like it's all some excellent secret, some sublime trick she'll just ruin with words. And maybe it is, maybe they can only do this, whatever it is they're doing, if they don't talk about it, if remains unspoken, if-

"Oh."

It's not so much said as breathed. A soft exhalation of wonderment.

The perfect manicured beauty of the house gardens has given way to a ravine. The lights from the terrace playing through the trees to dapple the grass like otherworldly starlight. And though she can tell this must receive every bit of care and attention as the others, with its cascading stream and tree lined paths it feels somehow wilder, more spirited. It feels like stepping through the looking glass or taking the second star to the right and heading straight on 'til morning.

Like she's run away to someplace far away and magical where anything's possible if only you just wish it so.

She turns to find Ben watching her, the affection on his face almost tangible in a way she hasn't seen, couldn't let herself see, for so long.

"I've wanted to bring you here forever. I think it might just be my favorite place in the city, since we have no baseball team to speak of." He gives her a shy smile, "Do you like it?"

There's really only one answer to that.

She kisses him.

It's exuberant and joyful and chaste. Nothing more than a brief press of lips, but it's enough. Enough to demolish every boundary, obliterate every reservation.

Enough that she's barely pulled away before he's bringing her back. And she goes willingly. So, _so _willingly.

His mouth moves against hers with an almost determined laziness. Like he's trying to make up for every time he hasn't kissed her before, like he's trying to stretch the minutes into days, years, forever.

Leslie responds like she believes he can.

When they finally separate, it's just to stand there, foreheads touching, breath mingling, and she realizes she's still holding his hand, has been this entire time, as if she's afraid what will happen when she lets go.

"Leslie-"

She kisses him before he can continue. "Don't- Just- just show me the rest, please?"

When Leslie was seven years old, she ran away from home and went to live under the jungle gym in Ramsett Park. Her father brought her waffles and a blanket and sat on the park bench that was partially obscured by a tree so she could pretend he wasn't there. She stayed up late and watched the stars and began a new sovereign nation free from the petty tyrannies inflicted by parents—like clean teeth and neat rooms and having to pay stupid, awful, library fines out of her own allowance when her only crime was wanting to keep the books a little longer.

And even though a storm came and she got soaked to the bone and caught the flu, and her mother yelled at her father for letting her be so foolish, what Leslie still remembers is those four hours when everything in the world was hers for the taking.

She feels like she's seven years old all over again, determined to run away forever yet knowing at the same time that nobody actually lives in a jungle gym.

Ben leads her silently through the garden, pausing occasionally to kiss her under the shelter of a tree, the middle of a footbridge, the edge of the stream. Kisses her just because he can, with a delicious, casual entitlement that makes her feel like they've been doing this forever.

She takes off her shoes and wades ankle deep into one of the rock-rimmed pools. Ruins her dress and his suit when she splashes him repeatedly until he finally comes and joins her.

"You're impossible," he laughs.

She grins. "But you love it."

"I do." Then, suddenly serious, he reaches out and tilts her head up to meet his gaze. "I really, really do."

Her fingertips fly up to his lips of their own accord, and she doesn't know whether she's trying to hold on to the words or push them back in. Maybe a little bit of both.

It feels like she's breaking and being remade and breaking all over again. Feels unbelievably wonderful and unimaginably cruel all at the time. Because she can hear the part he's not saying, and she knows why he's holding back. Because it's too soon and too late, and they're beginning as they're ending, and she's clinging on with both hands only to feel it all slipping between her fingers.

"You can't say things like that."

Ben just takes her hand in his and kisses her palm, completely unapologetic. "I know."

"I keep telling you, and you keep doing it anyway."

"I do."

She can feel him watching her, waiting. Curious where's she's going and trying not to rush the journey. And she knows he didn't say it because of anything he needed to hear, any demands he's trying to make. He simply wanted her to know. And in the end that's what makes her decision easy.

She drops her hand to his heart. "You're impossible."

He picks up the cue like it's an old routine and smiles.

"But you love it."

"I do. I really, really do."

[]

They get chased off by a guard just before midnight, and Ben tries to convince him that they simply lost track of time and didn't realize everyone had left, but she can't stop laughing and they're both still barefoot, and guard asks if Ben's okay to drive about five times before he lets them go, so she's pretty sure he thinks they're both drunk.

And maybe in a way they are.

She'd been afraid the walk to the car would feel like the end, like without the setting to hold the world at bay everything would come crashing back too quickly. And maybe Ben had the same thought, because he steals her keys from her hand and takes off at a half-speed jog (still barefoot), and of course she can't let the challenge go unanswered, and it's a magnificent game of keep away.

Up to and including the point where she catches him.

[]

She lets him drive because he knows the city better, because she doesn't really want to think about where they're going or the possibilities when they get there. Because she never does, actually, get her keys back.

Midway through the ride, her stomach growls so loudly Ben almost jumps.

"When was the last time you ate?"

Leslie bites her lip and tries to think. Let's see, she had that Nutri-Yum for lunch, and then that chocolate bar in the car, that would have been . . .

This is apparently all the answer he needs, because the next thing she knows he's sliding into far left lane and taking a turn at the next light.

When they reach their new destination, Leslie looks up at the sign for wood-fired pizzas and calzones with unconcealed skepticism. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

He gives her a mock glare. "Just trust me."

"Ben Wyatt, don't you dare get me a calzone. They're pointless and impossible to eat and nobody likes-"

He shuts the driver's side door on her tirade and heads inside, turning back at the last minute to give her a little wave and a smile that makes her think of 'Tommy Fresh' and Dennis Feinstein and . . . dammit she's getting a calzone.

[]

He makes her wait until they get back to the hotel, and they spread the boxes out on the floor of her room like college kids, and she's so hungry by this time she doesn't think she'd care if he'd gotten her a salad (_well, no, yes she would, but the point is she's really hungry_). So the fact she thinks this might just be one of the better non-breakfast-food things she's ever eaten is clearly a sign of starvation induced delirium and nothing more.

Still when Ben reaches over to wipe a smear of pizza sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, it's with a smile that says he thinks he's won something.

Leslie feels more than a little vindicated when he spills marinara on his tie.

"Stop laughing," he commands, trying to sound stern and failing miserably, "I liked this tie. It's not- It's not funny-"

Except it kind of is. And he barely gets the words out before he loses it. Utterly loses it, and then they're both doubled-over, laughing far harder and longer than the situation merits.

But of course it doesn't really have anything to do with the calzones at all. It's this and them and everything in between. It's the joyous relief of finally saying yes after eight months of no, and the frantic hysteria of feeling the clock running down. It's thinking everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be and knowing it's all an illusion.

It's wanting to have this same exact argument for years to come and not being able to figure out how.

And she's not doing this, she is absolutely not letting herself cry, because it's only one-thirty in the morning, and she's not going to waste whatever hours she has left. Because Leslie's never been one to stop fighting just because she knows she's going to lose.

She reaches out and twists the end of the tie around her hand, tugging him forward as if for a kiss only to pull back at the last second and smile against his mouth. "See. They're pointless _and _hard to eat."

"I don't know." Ben muses, seeming to give the point the appropriate level of consideration. Suddenly he catches her round the waist and drags her back towards him, silencing her shrieks of protest with a kiss, and then another and another until she's breathless and pliant and pretty much ready agree to anything, and because he's obviously a dirty, rotten cheater that's the moment he breaks off and looks over at the remnants of crust left in her box. "You seemed to enjoy yours."

Okay she was ready to agree to anything but you know _that_. Shakes her head in the emphatic negative. "Nope."

"Oh, really?"

And he's giving her a look that says he doesn't believe a word she's saying, and he obviously won't take her seriously as long she's half-draped over him and she's not about to let him think that he can win such an important debate by doing wha- _ohhh_- whatever it is he's doing with his hand right now. So she obviously she needs to move to a position of greater authority.

She kneels up and throws a leg over both of his, so that she's straddling his lap and he has to look up at her, and yes this feels much more powerful. "Calzones are dumb."

Ben just smiles up at her. "So you didn't like it at all?"

And he doesn't seem to be as intimidated as she feels he should be, and that might have something to do with the way his thumbs are skimming ever so slowly up the insides of her thighs, and oh, maybe this wasn't the brilliant strategic move she thought it was.

She bites down on her bottom lip to keep herself from saying something stupid like "I loved it" or "I love you" or "don't go". Starts to squirm out of reach so he can't keep cheating, but Ben's hands tighten around her thighs to keep her there, and the end result is that all she really accomplishes is grinding against him in a way that makes his eyes go glazed and half-lidded, and _hmmm_, okay so, she's beginning to see the advantages here.

Experimenting with this newly discovered power, she shifts forward and then back, smiling in triumph when Ben just barely bites back a moan, his hands flexing against her upper thighs like he's trying to stop himself. (_Definite advantages_). Puts a hand on his chest to steady herself as she leans forward to brush her lips against his ear.

"It was awful, like a backwards pizza. A pointless backwards pizza."

Ben buries his face in her neck and laughs; a soft, silent chuckle that sends little puffs of breath along her skin and makes her whole body vibrate in response. And it's so not fair that he's able to do that to her when he's not even trying.

And then his mouth is skimming along the curve of her shoulder, the line of her throat, and he's decidedly trying now.

"That must have been terrible for you."

"Hmm?" She feels like they might have been talking about something important, like she should be focusing on his words and not letting herself get distracted by the hand that's come up to ghost along the underside of her breast.

"Having to eat that whole awful backwards pizza by yourself when you didn't like a single bite. Must have been torture." He says it in that stupid, teasing way he does sometimes where he pretends he's agreeing with her when he's so not, and she should be arguing but-

No, yes, she should be arguing. This is important.

She sits back, her hand still on his chest, holding him at arm's reach and she can feel his heartbeat under palm, beating a too-fast cadence that belies his half-hearted attempt to appear relaxed. Puts on her serious face and looks him in the eye. "It was. Absolute torture. You should be ashamed."

Ben just drops his head back against the edge of the bed and reaches out to trail a lazy fingertip along the neckline of her dress. Looks up at her, shirt rumpled, tie askew. His eyes soft and adoring and completely unrepentant. "Should I?"

Ugh, this is getting her nowhere, and she can feel everything start to go hazy and soft-focus as he reaches the swell of her breast and dips that finger ever-so-slightly beneath the fabric to brush the edge of her bra. She changes tactics, curls her hand up around the loose knot of his tie.

"The calzone messed up your tie." She starts to undo it. "You really liked this tie."

"I did."

Slides it out from under his collar. Drapes it around her neck. "I liked this tie."

He twists his hand in the ends, gives them a little tug, to bring her closer, whispering as he kisses her. "You're lying."

Yeah she kind of is because really it's pretty awful. But at the same time she hates the idea of him wearing something else, something more stylish or conservative or whatever, and she has the insane impulse to make him promise that he'll keep wearing them. That when he gets elected State Treasurer or Inspector General or anything else he sets his sights on, he'll do it wearing terrible, skinny ties and horrible plaid shirts. That he won't let some consultant talk him into pinstripes or designer suits. That she'll always be able to hold onto this image of him right here, right now and never have to wonder if it's still true.

But she doesn't say any of that.

Instead she just kisses him back harder, deeper. Letting one kiss spiral into another and then another until she's forgotten about skinny ties and stupid calzones and arguing about nothing. About offices in South Bend and city council elections and professional ethics. About everything other than the feel of him, all of him—the taste of his skin, the contours of his ribcage, the sound of him coming apart above her.

The way they fit together in the after.

And for one moment she actually lets herself believe that she can stay here, that she can have this, that the rest of it doesn't matter. That she'll move to South Bend or he'll stay in Pawnee or they'll simply run away and raise llamas or bake pies or start a rock band or whatever and that part's not even important because they'll just be together. They'll be happy.

But, of course, it doesn't work that way, even in storybooks.

Alice leaves Wonderland.

And Wendy grows up.

And Leslie's always known, even when she was seven:

Nobody actually lives in a jungle gym.

[]

Sleep comes like a sneak thief, creeping up on her, stealing time, and suddenly it's morning and Leslie can feel dawn pressing against her eyelids, and it strikes her that that's wrong somehow, because she always wakes before sunrise and even so it's from the wrong angle, and she instinctively burrows down against it only to find that the sheets are too crisp and the bed's too big and too empty-

And suddenly everything's there, slamming into her consciousness with vivid excruciating detail, making her heart clench and her eyes sting with something that feels like first-flight and crash-landing all at once.

"Hey." Ben's voice calls her back, pulling her out of her downward spiral, and she slits her eyes open to find him sitting at the small side table, looking over at her with a shy, embarrassed smile.

He's already partly dressed in an undershirt and rumpled suit pants. The sight makes her feel oddly vulnerable, and she pulls the sheet a little tighter against her. "Hey."

The tiny flicker of disappointment on his face tells her the gesture didn't go unnoticed. Ben looks down at his hands, which she realizes now are holding his phone, turning it over and over in a strangely contemplative gesture.

And she doesn't know what she expected, how she hoped this would all go, but she knows this is all wrong. Absently, she reaches out, seeking something to cover up with, like that will somehow help make everything manageable. Her hand lands on his discarded shirt and she pulls it on without thinking, only realizing what she's done when she hears Ben's sharp inhalation.

Leslie fumbles to undo the buttons, fingers suddenly clumsy. "Sorry. I don't know- I mean, I have clothes in my bag. I just, um-"

"No, it's fine. Really it's- It's okay. More than okay, in fact." At that she stops and looks up to find him looking at her with a funny mixture of desire and wry self-deprecation that makes her insides flip-flop.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." But he still turns back to glance down at the phone in his hand, then he takes a deep breath and sets it carefully down on the table. Looks back over at her. "I, um, I made coffee. I don't know whether you know this about me, but when it comes to brewing coffee in hotel rooms, I'm kind of an expert."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, then stands, fingers grazing the screen of his phone one last time, like a touchstone. "So. You want some?"

She doesn't actually. She's never been that big a fan of basic coffee, prefers her caffeine to come with flavored syrup and whip-cream and sprinkles. But she nods yes all the same, feeling grateful for the opportunity to just give them a little space, let them start fresh.

Ben gets up and goes into the bathroom, (_and why do hotels always put the coffee makers in their bathrooms, anyways?_).

Leslie sits up, running a hand through her hair. She can hear Ben moving around in the bathroom. He's taking longer than necessary to get the coffee, and she knows he's giving her a chance to compose herself. Which means she should probably, you know, compose herself.

Easier said than done.

By the time Ben comes back out she's dug underwear out of her bag and pulled on the pair of yoga-pants she usually sleeps in when she travels, and she doesn't really feel any more composed or less vulnerable, but maybe it's a start.

Ben sets the coffee down in front of her on the table, along with a stack of sugar and creamer packets almost an inch thick. "Not quite sprinkles, but it's everything I could find."

The corners of her mouth quirk up. "See I would have been impressed if there were sprinkles."

"I'll keep that in mind."

That makes her drop her gaze, and she focuses on adding the sugar to her coffee on packet at a time. "I never asked, are you and Chris supposed to go back to Pawnee today?"

"No. He has a charity run this morning, and I have some errands, so we agreed to stay the weekend."

She glances back over her shoulder at the clock beside the bed. It's almost eight. "Were you supposed to drive him?"

"Friends are picking him up. There is a rumor going around that I may have thrown a shoe at him one time when he knocked on my hotel room door before six on a Saturday morning to invite me for a run."

"You're a morning person."

"I am."

He leaves it at that, and Leslie smiles against the rim of her coffee cup.

"No one's looking for me, Leslie. And if they are, they'll call my cell, not my room."

That makes her flush. Was she really so transparent?

"I'm sorry. I just-" she shakes her head, "I mean it doesn't really matter anymore, does it? Not since you're-"

She breaks off, still unable to actually make herself say the words. But it doesn't matter. It's back with them now all the same, looming and insistent. Hangs between them like a Damoclean sword.

Ben sets the flats of his hands on the table, and stares down at that phone that seems to be taking so much of his attention. And for a moment it's as if he's paused there, suspended. Then as though coming to a decision, he blows out a long exhale of breath, taps the screen to life, and slides the phone across the table to her.

"That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

Oh god_._

She picks it up. Fingers trembling, stomach plummeting, simultaneously terrified of what might be there and what might not.

It's everything she feared.

The draft email to Craig Richards is succinct but thoughtful—thanking him for his mentorship over the years, expressing gratitude for the offer, flattery at being considered, but ultimately turning it down for "compelling personal reasons" that require him to remain in Southern Indiana at the very least.

"Say the word and I'll hit send."

Leslie bites down hard on her bottom lip, sets the phone face down on the table and slowly shakes her head. "I can't ask-"

He reaches across the table and puts a hand over hers, stalling the words in her throat. "You can."

"Ben-"

"No, listen. Just listen first. I've spent these last months going out of mind, making do with scraps, and it's been- well, it's kind of been hell."

"I know."

"But at the same time it's kind of been wonderful, too. Getting to know you, to watch you and not constantly be wondering 'if'. Just knowing how you felt, that you felt something, that we were going through this together, well it made the rest of it worth it. And I just, I sat here this morning and I watched you and I thought, what am I doing? Why am I even thinking about walking away from this after more than ten months of waiting for it?"

"Eight months. It's been eight months." She feels like she has every second of it etched on her skin.

"It's been more than ten for me."

"Oh." She turns her head away, not knowing quite what to do with that.

"Leslie- Just say the word."

She turns back to face him, forces herself to meet his eyes. For the first time she feels like she's seeing the Ben Wyatt who got elected at eighteen and bankrupted a town—sincere and passionate and utterly reckless. Ready to throw himself off a cliff on the strength of his belief alone, without any regard for the rocks below.

And she can see why he won.

Because like this, he is persuasive. With that passion glittering in his eyes, that sincerity giving credence to his words and even that recklessness, lacing his face with a vibrant energy, he is so very, _very_persuasive. And she has to force herself to remember all the reasons why jumping isn't a fantastic idea.

"You couldn't keep your job in Pawnee. I can't-"

"I know. I can't either."

"So what would you do?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I'll- I'll become a financial planner. I'll get my CPA license. Maybe the audit position at Sweetums will pan out. I'm a very good financials guy. I can find something."

And it's not that she doesn't believe him. Because she does. He would find something. She knows he would. But it would be just that: 'something.'

"Ben this job Craig's offering you. It's your dream or at least a clear path to it. And don't tell me it's not, because I saw it in your face last night. You can't just throw it away like that after you've worked so hard. People don't do that."

He shakes his head. "People do that all the time. Make adjustments, compromises, sacrifices, for someone else, because of someone else. You change jobs to spend more time with your family. Move back home to tend to ailing parents. Pass up a promotion because it will require you to travel. People do this, Leslie."

"But not like this, not after one night."

She knows it's wrong the moment she says it, wants to claw it back. Rip it out of the air. But she can't and the words hit Ben like a slap, make his whole body go rigid.

"Is that all you think-?"

Flipping her hand over under his, she grabs hold of his fingers to stop him from pulling away. "No! No, of course not. It's just," she sighs, "I don't even have a name for what we are. For this thing we've been doing for the past eight months."

That makes him relent a little, and for a moment he just stares down at the table. Then, softly, "I do."

She waits.

Ben continues, "It's something else I've been thinking about this morning. What we've been doing, everything we've been telling ourselves. We constructed all these rules so we'd remain professional, so that we wouldn't cross any lines. But that never changed the fact that I wanted to say yes to things just to see you smile or I went out of my way to avoid a decision that I knew would hurt you. I don't think I've been professional about anything regarding you since the day I asked you if you wanted a beer. I cross lines every time I look at you in a meeting. So this thing we've been doing for eight months?"

He turns their hands over on the table, and lays his other hand over top. "It's a relationship. Call it a relationship."

"But that's just the thing. It's not." She covers their clasped hands with her free one, holding him there, keeping him with her, because he needs to hear this. "We're doing everything backwards. And we're missing all the pieces that make up a foundation. Ben, I've never been to your apartment. I don't know if you're a neat freak or a pack-rat. We've never talked about whether you believe in marriage or if you want kids. I don't even really know what side of the bed you prefer."

"And you don't want the chance to find out?"

"Of course I do. But I can't-"

"Can't what?"

"I can't be the reason you stay!"

And even though it comes out as a rasp, the words still land between them with a thud that feels final and definite, like doors closing or gavels pounding. Ben pulls his hands away and this time she lets him.

"I'm sorry. I really am, but you wouldn't be happy at Sweetums or a firm or anywhere that wasn't government. We both know that. Nobody goes through what you went through in Patridge and throws themselves right back in the way you did if they didn't _need_to be there. What happens if you start to regret leaving it? What happens to us when I'm the reason you're not happy? I just- I can't have you hate me like that."

"I wouldn't hate you."

In the back of her mind she can hear doors slamming and late night arguments she's not supposed to know about. She closes her eyes and swallows. "You would."

For some reason, that's the thing that makes him push away from the table and get up. He doesn't go far, just half-way across the room, stands there, hand at his forehead, body whipcord taut. And she realizes she's never seen him like this, she's seen him frustrated, seen him depressed, seen him manic and unraveling. But this, this quiet, tamped down anger, this throbbing hurt. This is new. And she doesn't have the first clue what to do for him.

"You don't know everything, Leslie." It's low and quiet and so tightly leashed it makes her fearful of what's clawing inside him.

"Ben-"

"No. No. You sit there making pronouncements. Telling me what is and what is not a functional relationship. That we somehow don't make the cut. That the fact that I- that _I love you_isn't a valid criterion for making a life decision. And I'm sorry, but how long exactly did your last truly functional relationship last?"

She feels like he's hit her, like she can't breathe. "That's not fair."

"Neither is making decisions based on your worst assumptions about me."

"They're not assumptions."

"Really?" Ben scoffs.

"I mean, yes they're assumptions, but they're not baseless. I've seen how this goes. My dad-" she breaks off, unable to continue. Ben puts the pieces together all the same.

"Shit." He runs a hand over his face, all his previous anger deflated. "Shit. I'm sorry."

Leslie turns her face away and shrugs. "You didn't know."

"Still-" he sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. "Look, I obviously don't know the whole story or really any of the story, here. But I do know this: You can't go through life expecting a repeat of the worst thing that's ever happened to you. Believe me, it's no way to live."

She smiles a little at the admission, because even though she's still angry, she can remember a time when all Ben did was expect the worst. "Life-coaching according to Ben Wyatt?"

He smiles back. "Life-coaching according to Leslie Knope."

It's a tentative, fragile truce. But it's something. And for moment they just let it rest there, take a breath. Finally Ben looks over at her.

"Leslie, I would _never_hate you."

He says it like an absolute truth, and she flinches against her will.

Ben sighs. "Do you really have that little faith in me?"

She shakes her head. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

"Sometimes I think you have _too much _faith in me."

"Not possible."

"See you're doing it again. You keep doing it. Keep putting this responsibility on me. You take a job because I tell you to. You wait because I say we can't. And now you'll walk away from everything you've worked your whole life for if I just ask you to stay? That's not fair. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to me. I can't- I can't fix your life for you, and it's not fair to ask me to try."

Ben presses his mouth into a thin line and looks at her. Hard. And there it is again, that quiet, tightly checked anger that says she's landed a blow she never intended.

"It's not broken."

"What?"

"My life. It's not broken. I'm not saying it was perfect before I came to Pawnee, and I'm not saying I don't like it better now because god knows I do, but- Leslie, I'm not asking you to fix me. I don't need to be fixed."

"No. That's not-" Except, yeah, that had been exactly what she meant. Because whatever Ben says, this person that he is now, this happier, more open person, is so much better than the man who came twelve months ago.

Only now she can't help but wonder if that's arrogance, if she's giving herself and Pawnee too much credit. If maybe he's always been there somewhere below the surface, and all it took was getting to know him.

"I'm sorry. I just- I don't understand what you want from me."

"Is the fact that I want to be with you really that hard to understand?"

"But to give up everything."

"Not everything. I keep telling you. People do this. They make compromises. It's how love works."

"Then why aren't you asking me to come to South Bend?"

Startled, Ben eyes fly up to meet hers, and she knows. Knows they both know the answer. He didn't ask because she wouldn't come. Because her job, her home, her life, it was never on the table. And she thinks there's something horribly inequitable about that. Something too off-kilter and imbalanced to allow a foundation for anything strong. And she wonders if there's something wrong with her that she's not brave enough to change that.

"Leslie-" he's pleading, but his voice is so tired. And they can't keep doing this. They're going to kill each other if they keep doing this.

"The Mayor's asked me to run for City Council. They're worried about scandals." It's out of her mouth before she really decides to say it. And she knows Ben can hear the unspoken part. He's a scandal, or at the very least the appearance of one. Even if he left the city manager's office tomorrow, there would be questions. It's the knockout punch, the coup de grace, an unseen attack that ends everything in one swift sure stroke.

Except there's no real winner here.

Ben just sits there, eyes closed, head bent, everything in his posture entirely defeated. Leslie doesn't think she's ever hated herself more in her entire life.

Finally, he whispers. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to say congratulations?"

"No," she shakes her head, feeling the start of tears sliding down her face, "This is the part where I'm supposed to say I'm sorry."

* * *

><p><strong>Additional Author's Notes<strong>

1. It will be okay I promise.

2. The Oldfields-Lily House and its gardens are a real place in Indianapolis, part of the Indianapolis Museum of Art and really one of its greatest gems. Pictures of the Ravine Gardens are on the museum's website. I don't know whether the Governor's office would ever hold an event there, but I really wanted to give them some place beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3

The two weeks after Ben turns in his notice until he leaves are the longest of Leslie's life. He's there, but he's not. She passes him in the hallways. Sees him across the courtyard. Listens to him in meetings. He's inescapable. He's everywhere.

And he's already gone.

It's like living with a ghost—having him so close she can touch him, yet knowing he's beyond her reach. And the loss is so sharp, so acutely painful that she has to stop herself from changing her mind a dozen times a day.

Not that it would matter.

There are some things you can't take back.

[]

On the night before Ben's last day of work, Tom throws him a going away party at the Snakehole Lounge. And Leslie feels awful that she didn't do it herself, but she's having a hard time thinking of his leaving as anything to celebrate.

She still goes, of course. How could she not? Sticks close to Ann and watches as Ben moves through the groups of people with an endearingly disbelieving, kind-of gratitude, shaking hands and saying goodbyes. Scribbling forwarding addresses on coasters and ensuring people have been added to his contacts list. And it strikes her that probably no one has ever done this for him before, that with every town he's left, every move he's made, maybe no one's ever said 'we will miss you' when he goes.

And maybe it's not her right, and maybe it's a little bit cruel, but suddenly she can't stand the thought of him leaving without her saying it, too.

She corners him at the bar, managing to catch him alone for what might be the first time that night. And there's a flicker of something in Ben's eyes that ricochets between real anger and full blown panic, stopping just a hairs-breadth short of either. Then his entire face changes, becoming guarded and defensive in a way that makes her think of the first time she met him—expecting the pain and determined not to let it show.

"Leslie Knope."

The full recitation of her name, the deliberate, artificial, distancing, makes her flinch and for a second she almost loses her nerve. But only for a second.

"Can we, umm, can we talk?"

Ben casts a deliberate glance around the crowded club, then settles his gaze back on her and raises an eyebrow in silent commentary she can read all too well.

"Maybe outside?" she adds.

The bartender brings his drink over at that moment, and Ben takes a long pull on his beer, considering the question, before turning back to look at her, eyes hard. "Sure you want to risk the scandal?"

It's a mocking challenge. A wounded animal lashing out—bitter and ugly and terribly vulnerable. But knowing the cause doesn't make it sting any less, and Leslie has to force herself to hold his gaze, not to strike back or runaway.

"Ben. Please."

And for second she knows he's going to say 'no', can see the intention on his face, the word half-formed on his lips. Then he stops, looks down at her, and something inside him seems to give. He sets his bottle down on the bar with a defeated sigh.

"Yeah, okay. Why not?"

The weather has turned in the two weeks since their visit to Indianapolis, and the crisp fall night cuts through Leslie's summer-weight cardigan, making her shiver the moment they get outside. But she knows if she goes back in to get her trench, she'll have missed her opportunity. So she hunches her shoulders against the chill, determined not to give in.

Wordlessly Ben shrugs out of his windbreaker and hands it over; stopping her instinctive protest with a look that tells her he's a split-second from turning around and walking right back inside if she gives him the slightest provocation.

Leslie takes the windbreaker and puts it on, giving him a tentative smile. "Thanks."

Ben just shoves his hands in his pockets and moves over to the side of the building to get a little protection from the breeze. "What did you want, Leslie?"

A hundred things. She wants a hundred things—wants to run for City Council, wants to win, and she wants to be the kind of person who didn't care quite so damn much about any of it. She wants Ben to have a fantastic successful career and wants him to give it all up for her; wants to keep him and wants to figure out how to let him go. She just wants too many things to have them all.

"I just, um, you know, wanted a chance to say goodbye."

For a beat he doesn't say anything, simply watches her, waiting. When she doesn't continue, he gives a tight jerk of his head and looks away, mouth twisting in a sardonic smile. "Well, okay then."

Without waiting for a response he pushes off the wall and starts to head back into the club.

This can't be it. This just can't be all.

"Wait!"

The word pulls Ben up short, like he's on a choke collar. And he stands silhouetted against the lights from the entrance, body tense, shoulders rigid.

"What do you want from me?" he finally rasps, voice brittle in a way that makes the words crackle and snap, even as it betrays how fragile his control is. The slightest touch, the lightest pressure, and he'll crumble.

She takes a careful step forward, wary of breaking him. "I don't want this to be how we leave things. Do you?"

"Do I want-" Ben murmurs, the words coming out on a breathless, scornful chuckle, like he can't actually believe he's having this conversation. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand along the side of his face. Then almost to himself, he sighs, "You know what? No."

"I thought we could go to JJ's or-"

But he holds up a hand as if to ward her off. "No. I mean _no_. You don't get to decide this part. How this goes."

"Ben-"

"I'm sorry, but I can't- I can't just go out for waffles with you like everything's okay. God Leslie, it hurts just to look at you. Don't you get that?"

She does. She really does. Because the past two weeks have been agony. Because every time she catches a glimpse of him all she can think about is the way he looked that night, under her, above her, about his hands on her skin, his heartbeat beneath her palm, about all she's losing. And it hurts. Of course it hurts. But that doesn't stop her, because Leslie can't help but think that when he's gone, all she's going to wish is that she'd looked more.

She takes another step forward, tries again. "Ben, I just-"

But at that moment the door to the club swings open and a few twenty-somethings stumble out, cutting off all conversation.

For a long instant, Ben holds her gaze, almost daring her to continue despite the audience.

But she doesn't, and he turns on his heel, escaping back into the club.

Leaves her standing there in the parking lot, clutching his windbreaker around her.

When she gets home that night, she hangs it up in the back of her closet next to his shirt.

Remnants of something she never truly had.

[]

Because she refuses to let that be his last memory of her before he leaves Pawnee, Leslie leaves the triptych of the Harvest Festival she bought last Christmas on his desk early that next morning. Tucks a note between the glass and the frame on the center panel.

_A little piece of Pawnee for your new office._

_Never doubt you'll be missed._

Ben doesn't acknowledge gift, doesn't seek her out or say goodbye, but a month later she gets a photograph in the mail. Four simple words scrawled on the back:

_Thank you._

_I'm sorry._

The triptych hangs behind the desk in his new office like it was made to be there.

She calls when she gets it, but he doesn't pick up. Doesn't call back.

And the message in the silence is loud and clear: she doesn't get to decide this part.

[]

Two days after the election results are announced in November a package arrives at her office (_former office_) via overnight delivery. And the shock of his name there on the return address label causes her fingers to hesitate a fraction too long.

"Dude, open it!" Tom insists.

She does, and her heart stops.

There tucked inside is a new name plate for her desk that's unlike anything she's ever seen. It's obviously hand-worked on what she would guess was found wood, must have been ordered at least a month before the election.

The shape of the branch has been left mostly intact, all it's contours and knots and imperfections lovingly honored with an artist's eye. The "Councilwoman Knope" is cut deep, highlighted in a light varnish that contrasts with the darker color chosen for everything else. It's somehow simultaneously classic and rich, and playful and rough-hewn. It's everything she is and everything she aspires to be.

And somehow he knew.

At the bottom of the box there's a note written in Ben's sharp, angular hand.

_Because I never doubted you would win._

_Congratulations,_

_Ben_

_P.S. I should have said that months ago. Forgive me._

This time she knows better than to pick up the phone.

[]

.

It's more than four years before she hears from him again.

.

[]

She'd be lying if she told you she thought about him every day. She doesn't.

The work for City Council is too hectic, too important. Takes all her energy and concentration until there's barely anything left to devote to unimportant things like breathing or sleep, let alone heartache. Leslie throws herself into it, gives it everything she has and a little bit more, because it matters, because she's waited her whole life for this, because she loves it.

Because in a way she gave Ben up to do this, and she owes it to him not to regret it, not to fail.

Because she'd be lying if she told you she didn't think about him at all.

Sometimes Leslie thinks it would be easier if she could choose it, if she could flip a switch, make a schedule, work it into her day. But it doesn't happen that way. He's like an old injury, intermittent and capricious. She can go months without thinking about him once, can smile and joke and date like any other woman. And then something will happen—a story that would make him laugh, a City Council vote he would have fought, a bad day he could have made better—and suddenly he's there, and it's as painful as if it all happened yesterday.

Ann, beautiful, beautiful Ann, who put the pieces together and came up with the right story and the wrong villain, takes control of her dating life with the focus of a crusader (_or possibly a pimp. The name Leslie gives it depends on the day_). She organizes parties, sets up dates, drops hints about her new neighbor the high-school principal, until it's everything Leslie can do not to tell her to date him herself (_she does actually, but that's another story_).

Still Leslie goes along with minimal protest. Has a string of first dates and a number of seconds and even one series that could almost be called a relationship. And she does it in part to appease Ann's fears. And she does it in part because it turns out when she cares less about how her dates go she has more fun (_well there was the time she ended up in a lake, and the time with the rabid squirrel, and the time with the lake_and_the rabid squirrel . . . But the point is generally she has more fun_).

But mostly she does it because there's a piece of her, a horrible aching piece that keeps hoping Ann's crusade will succeed, that the next guy will be the guy who makes Ben leave her alone entirely.

And then comes Brent, the Hospital's new development officer. Brent who is so deliberately everything Ben isn't (_tall, classically handsome, with prematurely gray hair and the confidence to match_) and yet occasionally so exactly the same (_same incredulous enjoyment of Pawnee, same dry wit_) that somehow she manages to stop thinking of him as a statement, as a choice. And for a little while she thinks okay.

Thinks _finally_.

But it doesn't work that way. It doesn't work that way because neither of them let it. Maybe because they don't want it to, maybe because they can't. She's not entirely sure. But it's easy and comfortable and unchallenging and maybe for awhile it's exactly what they both need. Brent is dependable and undemanding, willing to come to events when she wants him, unbothered when she cancels. They date for two years and yet there's always a casual passivity, a holding back on both their parts. Ready to take what the other can give, not particularly anxious to go searching for more. They work together, they fit each other, but only so much and only so far.

Brent has a ten year-old daughter, a precocious, dark-haired bookworm, he gets on alternate weekends and summer vacations, and despite Jessica's unfathomable and misguided enjoyment of libraries, Leslie knows she could love her all too easily given half the chance. But Brent is careful to keep them from getting too close, to limit the time they spend together, to ensure that Jessica never gets the wrong impression, never asks if she'll be her step-mom.

And Leslie's grateful she never gets the question.

But sometimes she wonders what happened to being tempted to jump off a cliff.

The day they break up feels disconcertingly similar to every other day. They've both seen it coming for months. She's gearing up for the Democratic primaries and even though a run for the Indiana House of Representatives isn't exactly the big leagues, she knows Brent well enough to know he's not going to even chance putting Jessica in the spotlight, not for her. And she doesn't want him to, not for this. So it's mutual and civil and when it's done her strongest emotion is a wistful kind of regret that she'll never get to see Jessica turn thirteen.

That night it's not Brent she thinks about, but Ben. And she's not even surprised. He's always been there, pushed aside, overlooked, but never really gone, like the shirt and jacket that still hang in the back of her closet.

Leslie's never been the type of person to look back, to second guess. The whole process has always struck her as pointless and a little self-defeating. She makes the decisions she makes and she trusts herself enough to own them, embrace them. It's a philosophy that has always served her well, kept her looking forward, focused on the things she could do something about. It's always worked.

But not for Ben.

Ben stays. Ben lingers. There's something raw and undone about them that she can't quite let go of, like an unfinished painting; an incomplete concerto; the undeveloped photograph left on the negative.

And the potential, the possibility, the almost of it, is somehow all the more haunting for everything it could have been and isn't.

Maybe that's why when he suddenly materializes in front of her in the one place she absolutely should have expected him, but somehow failed to anticipate—it feels simultaneously utterly shocking and surprisingly inevitable.

[]

**iv.**

**Southern Indiana Democratic Fundraiser**

If someone had told her all those years ago there would be something she didn't like about holding public office, Leslie would have said that person was crazy.

And she would have been right. There's nothing she doesn't love about holding public office.

_Running _for public office is another story.

Outside of the chance to meet the people she represents, she pretty much hates everything about the process, hates the fights that aren't about the issues, the issues that aren't about the people, the people that aren't about anything other than themselves. And she really, _really_hates asking for money.

She used to be good at this. Well, no, not this, she's never been good at asking for things for herself, for other people yes (_she can strong arm pretty much anyone into anything for other people_), but not for herself. So this night, circulating through groups of people she doesn't know very well, pretending their donations to the party were out of altruism and they're not spending half the conversation sizing her up as someone to be watched or not? This is pretty much hell.

But as Madison, her overly-pragmatic, yet wonderfully un-cynical campaign manager continually reminds her, this is the unfortunate price of stepping on to a larger stage. And granted the Indiana House of Representatives isn't that much bigger, but bigger it is and more money is needed to step on to it. So here she stands, in the main ballroom of the French Lick Resort and Casino, in too-high heels (_because apparently unless you're Barbara Boxer you're not supposed to be this short_), pretending she likes this part.

There's a moment around nine when the night almost feels like it's about to take a turn for the better. She's fallen into conversation with Diane Layton, a dynamic, middle-aged woman who turns out to be the director for Women's Studies at the University of Indianapolis. When Leslie mentions Camp Athena her whole face lights up, and she starts naming current students who wouldn't be in her program now were it not for their summers there.

"We need more stories like yours in our state politics. Accessible role-models for the next generation. When you get to Indy next year be sure to give me a call, I'll want to put you on a panel for my students."

Leslie can feel herself start to blush at the assumption she'll win, tries to fight it. "Well we've got to get to the State House first."

"Nonsense, I have it on the best authority not to bet against you."

That makes her blink. Because she just assumed this was happenstance, can't think of a single person this woman might know who would remember her name, let alone have an opinion on her election run. "I'm sorry? Who-?"

"Hello, Leslie."

Oh God. She knows that voice.

This can't be happening. This absolutely _cannot _be happening.

But Ben's moved to join them, handing Diane a glass of wine and turning to Leslie with an unreadable expression and an outstretched hand, and it feels like a gut-shot, and- Okay. Apparently this is happening.

"It's good to see you," he says in a way that doesn't give her any clue if that's actually true.

He looks so unchanged, maybe a few more lines at his eyes, the suggestion of gray in his hair, but nothing dramatic, nothing memory doesn't airbrush away. He's still slightly boyish, still a little unpolished, still pairing a navy-blue gingham dress-shirt and striped tie in a way that shouldn't work, and he just barely pulls off. Still exactly the same man she remembers.

And yet he's not. It's subtle, beneath the surface. Nothing specific, nothing she can put her finger on, but there's a reserve, a deliberation to him that's new, and she can't tell if that's for her benefit or just who he is now.

Something flickers across his face, and Leslie belatedly realizes she hasn't taken his hand.

She responds on autopilot. Because really what else is she supposed to do? What else do you do when a man you've never quite given up on, never quite gotten over, suddenly appears back in your life and hands another woman a drink?

"You, um, you, too. It's good to see you, too."

If Diane notices the almost tangible awkwardness of the exchange she hides it astonishingly well, picking up the conversational slack with a deft hand. "As I said, I have it on the best authority that you're the state candidate I want my students to watch this year. Honestly talking to Ben you wouldn't even know there was a Democrat running for Governor in this election. It's just Leslie this. Leslie that. Leslie will run the world one day."

Ben winces slightly and half turns to say something in Diane's ear that Leslie can't hear over the circus music in her head, but Diane just laughs and shakes her head. "Nonsense, I've been dying to meet your political crush for months now." She fixes her gaze back on Leslie. "He undersold you by the way. You're marvelous."

That makes Ben drop his head and rub a hand over his face in that way he does when he's frustrated and losing, but there's just the slightest hint of something else there, a kind of amused exasperation, that says this is old-hat, expected and tolerated and maybe just a little bit enjoyed. It's the sort of thing she associates with married couples and best-friends and great working partnerships and she doesn't have the first clue which one this is. And she feels petty for the fact that it matters.

Absently she forces herself to respond to Diane's compliment. "Thank you."

"You know what he's never told me, though?" Ben's head snaps back up like he knows what's coming. "He's never told me how the two of you met."

"You know, I think Leslie needs to-"

But Leslie's already started talking, unaccountably scrambling, voice edged with maybe the slightest-tinge of hysteria. Which is ridiculous because it's such an innocuous story. "We- We worked together, let's see, a little over five years ago?"

Ben nods, and she can feel his eyes fix on her in a way that fills in all the blanks, all the unspoken pieces, makes her skin itch and her heart speed up. She takes a too-big sip of her wine and continues, "Pawnee was in some financial trouble, and he came in from the state budget office to help the city work it out. Really he was invaluable."

For some reason that makes Diane raise a skeptical eyebrow, and she looks from Leslie to Ben and back again like she's puzzling something out. Leslie takes an even bigger gulp of her wine.

When she finally does come to a conclusion, it's not at all the one Leslie expects. "Please tell me he didn't fire you. It was a terrible phase he went through, really we're all very embarrassed for him, but I promise he's in recovery and working his twelve-steps. Ben, make amends."

Ben chokes back a laugh. "I didn't fire her."

Diane narrows her eyes, and he raises his hands in surrender. "All right I tried. Once. Temporary lapse in judgment."

"Tried." Diane repeats.

"And failed spectacularly," he admits with a self-deprecating smile.

Leslie just watches the teasing exchange with the oddest sensation, a strange mixture of jealousy and loss and guilt. Because for a moment he's given his whole attention to Diane, fallen into a comfortable repartee that obviously long-established, that says whatever this is, it's strong and lasting and good for him. And she realizes she's never thought of him as having anyone outside of the people he met in Pawnee, that whenever she's pictured him, he's always been alone, been waiting for her. And she wants to be happier that he's not, that he's happy.

Wants to be happier, but isn't.

". . . No seriously, I want to know, how do you fail to fire someone?" Diane turns to her. "Leslie you have to explain this to me. Was there blackmail, embarrassing photographs, did you just simply say no? Oh please tell me you just told him no."

"Um, something like that." Actually if she thinks back on it, she's not precisely sure what stopped Ben from cutting her job out of the gate (_because once the anger and the alcohol cleared it wasn't as though she had any illusions that she was somehow safe_), but there was a concert that shouldn't have happened, and service concessions she hadn't wanted to make, and three months worth of budget meetings that somehow left her department relatively unscathed, and telling him no is the only explanation she can come up with.

Her gaze catches Ben's just a second before his slides back over to Diane and suddenly the other explanation comes to her and it's so blindingly obvious she can't breathe (_I don't think I've been professional about anything regarding you since the day I asked you if you wanted a beer_). Dear god, she needs to get out of here.

"I love it. You just refused to be fired. Oh you're going to be spectacular at the State house."

"That's what I've been telling you. Once Leslie's determined to do something, no one's going to stop her."

Diane touches his arm with a laugh. "Certainly, not you, apparently."

"No." Ben murmurs suddenly serious, his eyes flicking over to meet Leslie's in a way that makes her heart twist, "No, certainly not me."

[]

The evening passes in a kind of haze after that. Ben manages to convince Diane that they can't get away with 'monopolizing all of Leslie's time,' but not before Diane's given her the name of the president of the Democratic student association on campus and promised that she'll funnel Leslie the best volunteers for the summer break, with a conspiratorial, "As an academic, what I lack in money I can more than make up for in slave-labor."

Later Leslie discovers from Madison that whatever Diane's financial status, she's still managed to donate a couple thousand dollars directly to Leslie's campaign fund. And all she can think is she could have been very good friends with a woman like that, but she catches a glimpse of Ben touching Diane's shoulder in silent communication as he moves away to join a different group, and she knows it's not going to happen.

The thought causes a sharp stab of irrational anger to lance through her, because she's never been that kind of woman before. She has entire slogans about not being that kind of woman (_'utereses before dudereses', 'ovaries before brovaries' etc._), but here she is, exactly that kind of woman, and she's furious with Ben for turning her into one.

The anger carries her. It may be unfair and misplaced, but it sharpens her focus, lets her cut through the maelstrom of emotions running through her. So she holds onto it, keeps it close, allows it to protect her from the sound of Diane's clarion bell laugh; the sight of Ben across the ballroom, immersed in an animated debate that reminds her just how stubborn he could be; the shock that goes through her when he glances up to find her looking at him and just looks straight back.

It's like reliving their entire relationship in one moment, all the affection and longing and anger and hurt, jumbled together in one turbulent mess. And suddenly she can feel herself standing on the edge of that cliff again, and it's ten times higher now, and she'll never survive the fall. But it's so beautiful and god, she can't remember why she didn't jump.

And if you asked her, she'd tell you it's the anger that makes her pause in the lobby, coat in hand, when she sees him sitting alone at the bar across from the casino entrance (_because it was a crappy thing he did, ambushing her like that, and he deserves to be told that_).

But really there's every possibility it was that look.

Madison doesn't even blink when Leslie tells her there's someone she wants to talk to, and she'll see her tomorrow. And probably a more experienced campaign manager would be leery of allowing her candidate off the leash, but Leslie switched over to tonic water the moment Diane and Ben stepped away, and she's subjected Madison to the chart on more than one occasion, and quite frankly there were bigger, far more indiscrete fish at this fundraiser. So Madison just shrugs and reminds her about the pancake dinner tomorrow evening out at the Eagleton senior center before saying goodnight.

Leslie has always been a planner. She makes lists, constructs scenarios, creates alphabetized contingency plans for everything from garnering support for the new construction on 'Whitcomb Ave' to the unfathomable but potentially catastrophic possibility that JJ's might one day close.

So how has she never planned for this?

For a second a dozen openings cross her mind ranging from 'Sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I barely function' to 'I didn't deserve to be treated like the villain' to 'Do you love Diane?' and everything in between. But when she opens her mouth what comes out is something else entirely.

"I guess you really did need glasses, after all."

There's a mirror behind the bar, and she can see the moment her voice registers, then the moment he places the reference, it's like a key turning, the tumblers clicking into place one by one, and she holds her breath waiting for what will be unlocked.

Ben looks up from his phone and turns, a hand going self-consciously to the rectangular frame glasses he'd obviously forgotten he was wearing.

"Yeah," he gives a small, embarrassed laugh and takes them off, slipping them into his suit-coat pocket, "Yeah, it turns out I did."

"And now you're putting me in soft-focus? Should I be grateful or offended?"

Ben shakes his head, "Neither. They're for reading. Too much time in front of a computer. You, I can see just fine."

He adds the last with a small, soft smile that Leslie feels herself returning, as her free hand absently moves to smooth-away non-existent wrinkles from her red, raw-silk sheath. And for a moment it's almost as though no time has passed, but then it stretches a beat too long, becoming awkward and stilted. Like dance partners who don't quite remember all the steps.

Belatedly he gestures to the stool beside him in silent invitation.

And even though she's the one who sought him out, Leslie suddenly finds herself backpedaling, offering him an out. Because Ben is a nice guy, the kind of guy who invites you to have a drink with him out of politeness, and she doesn't think she can do socially-obligated small talk. "Oh, I, um, I don't want to intrude, if you're waiting for Diane or need to go meet her or-"

"Diane's playing poker and might be at it for hours. Sit down. I'll buy you something with a sugared-rim, and you can save me from pathetically updating my fantasy baseball team at a bar."

"Well, that is pretty pathetic. Tragic almost."

"It really is." He smiles and gestures to the bar stool again, "Help me Obi Wan?"

She laughs and takes a seat before she realizes she'd made the decision. "A Star Wars reference and Tom's not here. I feel like I should call you a nerd on his behalf."

"Wow it's been a long time since I've heard that."

"Well that settles it." She turns a little to face him and pronounces with as much solemnity as she can manage, "Nerd."

Ben laughs good-naturedly, and nods as if to say he sees how it is now. And for a split-second it's like they're back having a beer at ten-thirty in the morning, and she's calling him Mr. Mayor, and letting herself really see him for the first time. For that split-second it feels like a beginning, like a do-over. And then the laughter fades and his eyes slide away as he takes a deliberate pull on his beer, and she's reminded that this is at most an epilogue, a kind of final passage to book-end their story with bizarre symmetry.

"So, how is Tom?" he ventures after a moment.

"Running a men's clothing boutique. Or emporium. I forget what I'm supposed to call it."

Ben looks horrified. "Dear lord, really?"

"Hey, he dressed you once if I remember."

He winces at that. "Do me a favor? Don't tell Diane that. I'll never live it down."

The way he says Diane's name is so unselfconsciously casual that it throws her off balance, makes her question whether she imagined the look he gave her earlier, and then makes her hate herself for not wanting to have imagined that look.

Avoiding his eyes, she reaches for the flavored-martini list seeking the solace of highly sugared alcohol.

"Leslie?"

"Did you know they have five chocolate martinis on here? I didn't know that was possible. It's kind of overwhelming."

For a second she thinks he's going to protest, push, but then he turns and motions the bar-tender over. Points to his beer bottle. "Can I get another one of these, and-" he looks over at her, "how much do you trust me?"

At the moment, she has absolutely no idea.

Ben takes her silence as acquiescence, "A white-chocolate raspberry martini." He gives her crooked half-smile, "You'll like it. It's basically dessert in a glass."

And suddenly she's angry again, because he's got her completely off-kilter, and she doesn't know where she stands, and there's something wrong about the fact she wants to stand anywhere.

"So, Diane seems nice. How long have the two of you been together?" It's a complete non-sequitor, abrupt and challenging, but if she's going to do this, if she's going to sit here and reminisce with him and let him order her a drink he knows she'll like, she needs to hear it, needs to be able to see the boundaries.

The note of accusation in her voice makes him blink, and for a second he just looks at her. Then as if something's clicked into place, his expression shifts, becoming a funny mix of rueful and embarrassed and maybe just the tiniest bit pleased. "If by together you mean standing in for her died-in-the-wool, entitlement-slashing, Republican, economist husband who, according to Diane, can't be trusted to behave himself in civilized company? About eight years off and on."

"Diane's married. To a Republican." She repeats stupidly, somehow latching on to the most and least important pieces of information simultaneously.

Ben nods, the corners of his mouth tugging up in amusement. "Paul."

"Sorry?"

"His name's Paul. He was my college roommate."

"Diane's married to your college roommate."

"For fifteen years and amazingly they're both still alive."

"Oh," she says, trying to sound neutral and detached, even though she knows the horse is kind of out of the barn on this, but still is the pretense of dignity too much to ask here? "Oh, I thought-"

He cuts her off, no longer quite so amused by the whole thing. "Leslie, did you really think I'd try to convince someone I was seeing to support your candidacy without telling her-" he casts about for the right words, lands on ones he doesn't really like, "that we had a history?"

The bar-tender brings their drinks over at that moment, and she's saved from having to respond. Because now that he's said it out loud the answer is obvious—no, he wouldn't do that—and she feels simultaneously a little silly and terribly exposed by her obvious preoccupation with the issue.

Stalling for time to come up with an appropriately face-saving rejoinder, she takes a sip of her drink. Then takes another. It's exactly as advertised—dessert in a glass. Surprisingly strong dessert in a glass. Ben watches her obvious appreciation of his choice with a smug, self-satisfied expression, and she's not entirely sure that the pleasant warmth uncurling in her stomach is only due to the alcohol.

This is beginning to feel unexpectedly dangerous. Because when she walked over here he was in a happy long-term relationship with a very nice woman who she hated. And now he's suddenly not. At least she thinks he's not, maybe he's got a Republican wife who can't be trusted to behave herself either. Was there a wedding ring, would he wear a wedding ring? And oh god why can she not stop thinking about this? This should not matter so much. This should not matter at all. Damn him and his stupid dorky glasses and good drink selecting skills for making it matter.

She turns to him and glares. "You could have told me."

Ben blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"You could have told me you weren't seeing Diane. You should have."

His face contorts in puzzlement, "At the fundraiser?"

Leslie nods. He shakes his head and laughs.

"What? I don't think it's that unreasonable of a request. I had a lot on my mind without having to decipher your ridiculous hired-escort relationship with your college roommate's wife."

"Wait, so I'm a gigolo now?"

"Whatever," she waves her hand dismissively, "What you call it isn't the point. The point is there is no possible way I should have been expected to figure that out and you should have disclosed it at the beginning."

Ben gives her an incredulous look. "You're kind of serious about this, aren't you?"

She pops one of the raspberries in her mouth and stares him down.

"God, you're still absolutely im-" He bites off the last word and looks away, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

"What? I'm still what?"

"Nothing- I'm just- I'm trying to picture exactly how something like this goes. Do I do it before or after the handshake? As part of the introduction? Talk me through the etiquette of this. I walk up to you and say . . . What? 'Hello Leslie, you look lovely. I see you've met Diane, who I'm not dating, by the way.'" He gives an exaggerated frown, "No, that's a little awkward, isn't it?"

She glares at him. It has very little effect. "How about, 'Hello Leslie. I see you've met Diane. Diane's the wife of my college roommate Paul, who I volunteered to fill in for tonight because my stunningly attractive fiancé is off saving children in Haiti.'"

"Oh, so we're going for a complete disclosure here?"

"Transparency should be the watchword of all modern politics."

"And I'm sure you would have reciprocated. Because it's only polite. So you would have shaken my hand and said 'Hello Ben it's good to see you. I'm here alone because I'm in the midst of a secret passionate affair with the hot, well-built college student who does my landscaping in the summer, and he gets very jealous.'"

"Exactly," she deadpans and they both laugh at the obvious absurdity.

"Well it's good we've got that cleared up," Ben murmurs.

"Absolutely."

Silence descends again, but it's a little more comfortable this time. Ben rolls his beer bottle in his hands. Leslie takes another sip of her martini. Then unexpectedly, he turns and extends his hand.

"Hello Leslie, you look lovely. I'm glad you got a chance to meet Diane, who I am not dating, but is one of my very best friends and likes you quite a bit. I escorted her tonight because we have a lot of fun together, and I'm not seriously dating anyone right now."

She takes his hand with a small smile and no little trepidation, but she was the one who started this and she doesn't get to back out now. "Hello Ben, it's good to see you. I like Diane quite a bit too, but I'm glad you're not dating her. I'm here alone because I'm not seriously dating anyone either."

"So no torrid affairs with college-age landscapers?"

"No. Though now I'm intrigued by the concept."

Ben huffs a small laugh and gives her a warm genuine smile that makes her whole world tilt sideways, and for a moment all she can think about is how much she likes the view. Belatedly she realizes they haven't let go of the handshake and his thumb is absently skimming along the back of her hand.

As if her awareness has prompted his own, Ben stops abruptly and goes to pull away, but her hand tightens around his instinctively, holding him there.

"I've missed you, you know."

It's an unplanned admission, tumbles out unbidden and unwanted, making her vulnerable, making him obligated. But it happens all the same. Because she's carried this with her for four years, tucked away out of sight like a terrible secret, like she wasn't allowed, like it wasn't her right, and it's finally just grown too heavy. So here she is laying it at his feet like an offering without the first clue whether she wants anything in return.

Ben sighs and looks down at their hands, "Leslie- I don't-"

But he breaks off and shakes his head. Then carefully, deliberately, he sets her hand down on the bar and pulls away.

He doesn't go far, just turns back to his drink, obviously trying to gather his thoughts, figure out what he wants to say, and even though Leslie's terrified of what that might be, she feels like she owes it to him to hear it.

"I should have said goodbye before I left," is how he finally starts. He's not looking at her, keeps his eyes firmly fixed downward, at the spot on his beer bottle where he's scratching the label with his thumbnail. "Even after- Well, I should have at least said goodbye. You were right about that."

"I never held it against you. I mean I hated how we left things, but I never held it against you."

He looks up and meets her eyes in the mirror. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They give each other tentative half-smiles then look away.

"I got the nameplate you sent after the election. It was perfect, thank you." She turns the martini glass in her hands and adds, "I would have called to tell you, but . . ."

"I know." Ben rubs at the side of his neck and sighs, "You should know, the night you won, I picked up the phone to call you, god I don't know, at least five times."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I would have liked that."

They lapse into silence again. Leslie finishes her martini and starts to fiddle with the stirrer. Ben goes back to shredding the label on his beer. Finally he sets the bottle back on the bar with a defeated sigh.

"I missed you, too. Of course, I missed you, too."

"But?" Because there is a 'but,' she can hear it in his voice.

"I don't- Leslie, I never called you when you won because I didn't think it would be one phone call, because I didn't know if I could figure out how to just be friends with you, and I couldn't put myself through that all over again if the answer turned out to be no."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"And now?"

"Sorry?"

"Do you, um, do you think you could figure out how to be friends with me now?"

She knows it's presumptuous, knows it's demanding and dangerous and probably a really, really bad idea. But all being around him like this has done is make her achingly aware of every space inside her that's been empty since he left, and it's only a little bit about wanting him. It's about stories she's never told him and accomplishments she's never shared. About the fact she wishes she knew if he was happy or if he likes his work or hates his boss. About the fact that it hurts to imagine walking out of this bar knowing she might not hear from him again. Because she misses him with a pain that's almost physical, and really, it's only a little bit about wanting him.

And if it's more than a little bit, well that's her problem.

Ben shakes his head. "Honestly? I still don't know."

"Oh," she whispers and reaches into her purse for her wallet, trying to mask her disappointment and failing miserably. "Okay, I mean, I understand. I shouldn't have-"

He reaches out and puts a hand on her wrist to stop her. "Can you give me another drink to figure it out?"

[]

She gives him two more. Another 'round of beers for both of them with a plate of fried calamari to start absorbing some of the alcohol, followed by ice waters and coffee when they start to feel everything go a little blurry around the edges.

They talk pointedly about nothing. She tells him about Ron's marriage to his third wife who he insists on calling Tamberlee despite the fact she introduces herself as Tammy. But they've made it to their one year anniversary and the only time the fire-department was called to the house there was an actual accidental fire, so Leslie's stopped stocking-up on whiskey, cigars, fire-extinguishers, and medical supplies in preparation for Ron showing up on her door-step.

He tells her about the dog that followed him home in South Bend and never left, and how happy he was to move back to Indianapolis where the winters were milder.

"You're from Minnesota."

"And do you see me trying to go back?"

[]

There's a dangerous moment in the middle when they somehow wind up on the subject of past relationships despite their best intentions.

He dated a woman named Rachel, who handled recruitment compliance for Notre Dame's athletics department, for a year and a half while he was up in South Bend (_Leslie immediately imagines her to be stunning cross between Danica Patrick and Anna Kournikova, and isn't sure she hides it well_). He says her name with honest, quiet affection, and she makes the mistake of asking what happened.

Ben shrugs. "Julianne finally retired and Craig asked me to take over Local Government Finance in Indy."

He utters the words with an offhand finality that gives her pause, because it's their story and yet it's so obviously not. Her eyes catch his, and she can read the unspoken parts there, the offers he didn't make, the conversations he didn't have, the cliffs he never tried to jump off. She swallows and looks away, caught between real sadness at the possibility that she's partly responsible for that, and a horrible kind of joy at the idea that maybe she really was special.

She tries to reciprocate by telling him about Brent and winds up talking about Jessica more than she intended.

"You miss her, don't you?" Ben asks with genuine sympathy.

And the thing of it is, until this moment she hadn't realized quite how much. "Yeah, I guess- I guess I do."

"She would have been lucky to have you as a step-mom."

Leslie shakes her head. "Brent and I were never- I mean from what I could tell she has a great mother, and Brent is a wonderful dad. Jessica always came first for him. She's a happy kid. I just-"

"Got attached?"

"Apparently," she looks down at the mug in her hands and bites her bottom lip, "It doesn't get any easier does it?"

Ben doesn't say anything.

[]

They push past it with a determination born of necessity because they can't afford to go back down that road, not right now. This thing, this new, half-formed thing they're doing is too young, too fragile to withstand the assault, and she needs it to survive.

So she asks him about his job and listens in open-mouthed astonishment as it sinks in that he now has regulatory oversight for the tax rates and budget of every municipality in the state.

"I'm sorry, are you telling me you've kind of been my boss for a year, and I didn't know? How did I not know this?"

"Has Pawnee tried to change it's tax rate or finance a bond in the past year?"

"No."

"There's your answer."

[]

He gets her talking about the campaign, and laughs when she tells him about poaching Madison from Mayor Gunderson's office after a now legendary city council meeting that somehow resulted in an escaped possum and Madison cutting Tammy Swanson's hair off in front of everyone.

"Wait, why was there a possum?"

"You know what? I don't remember."

"You really hired her because she cut off Tammy Swanson's hair?"

"Have you ever seen anyone else successfully stand up to that woman?"

[]

The night unspools too fast and Ben moves them over to the set of couches in the lobby so he can keep a lookout for Paul who is apparently driving in from Southern Illinois University where he teaches to spend the weekend with his wife and Ben at the resort.

"So they don't live together?"

"Well, they do in the summers. Paul comes in to Indianapolis and teaches a summer course at Butler, and Diane usually goes down at Christmas because Paul's family is over in western Kentucky. But frankly, by September I think they're both happy to have the space."

"I can't imagine-"

"I know, neither can I. It's certainly not my idea of a marriage, and I don't think it was theirs either. But they make it work. And I'm not just saying that because they're my friends. They really, really work at making it work."

Leslie takes a sip of her now lukewarm coffee and grimaces. "It must be hard though."

Ben shrugs. "Well, I'm sure it's no walk in the park, but- I don't know, they make each other so happy, you know?"

Five years ago, six months ago, Leslie would have said she didn't know. Because there's an order, a way things are supposed to go. Because to her relationships have always been hothouse flowers—delicate, exotic creations to be nurtured and tended, requiring careful attention and exactly the right growing conditions. But sitting across from Ben is like finding a crocus in the snow, a resilient, seemingly impossible thing that has no business being alive.

And yet there it is all the same.

"I can imagine."

It comes out more wistful than she intended, and Ben's face freezes. Leslie shuts her eyes and flushes in embarrassment. She can't keep doing that. Not while she's trying to convince him that they can be friends, that they can be something, that there's an option that doesn't include never seeing each other again. It's unfair to him and dangerous for her, and she just cannot keep doing that.

There's a clink of a mug on the coffee-table and a rustle that says he's standing up. Dammit.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._

"Ben-"

"Excuse me, there's Paul."

Paul turns out to be a teddy bear of a man with a professor's full beard and kind eyes. He greets Ben with a tired smile and a one armed hug, and for a few minutes Leslie can tell she's been completely forgotten.

Finally they make their way back over and Paul slumps down on the empty sofa with a contented exhale and looks up. "So how much money am I out?"

Ben holds up his hands and shakes his head. "Oh no, I am not getting in the middle of this. The last time I told you anything, I had to endure an entire tirade about how it's not your money at all. I think she actually gets angrier at me than you."

"That's because you were brought up properly and should know better. He's just an insufferable heathen." Both Paul and Ben turn to find Diane standing a few feet away holding up her phone. She looks down at it and reads. "Woman, I have arrived. Attend me." She crosses her arms. "Seriously?"

Even Leslie can see that she's barely holding back a brilliant smile.

Paul shrugs and plays along. "I am but a weary traveler in need of succor. But if you're too tired, I passed some young and impressionable cocktail waitresses who-"

Diane cuts him off with a slap to the back of his head and long kiss.

Ben gives an exaggerated cough, and then another.

Finally Diane pulls away and looks over at him in mock surprise. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't see you there."

"Very funny. But really-" he gestures in Leslie's direction, and Diane face lights up in delight.

"Leslie! You're still here." She settles down beside Paul on the couch, "Husband, this the woman running for the Indiana State Assembly that Ben's always talking about."

"You make it sound like I'm stalking her. I talk about other people, you know."

They ignore him, and Paul extends his hand across the coffee with a smile. "He really doesn't. It's very nice to meet you Leslie. How much money did my wife give you?"

"Behave."

Leslie takes his hand with a smile and tries her best to settle in to the repartee. "I think I'm going to have to follow Ben's lead on this and not interfere with the sanctity of the home."

"That much, huh?"

"We thank you for your generous support."

"Well then," Paul leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees, eyes glittering, face serious, "as a contributor, I have a few questions."

Ben and Diane react simultaneously. "No!"

"What? Free and frank discourse is the bedrock of all civilization. I'm sure Leslie's more than capable of holding her own."

"I'm sure she's capable of wiping the floor with you, but it's late and watching you discourse with another woman is not what I was looking forward to tonight."

"But I have legitimate concerns."

Diane sighs and rolls her eyes. "Leslie, do you golf?"

"Yes, but-"

"Come golfing with us tomorrow. Paul apparently has serious, legitimate concerns, and it will be good for him to get his ass-kicked by someone new. Besides Ben's a terrible golfer, he could use the help."

"I'm not a terrible golfer. I don't play. There is a difference."

"Keep telling yourself that." She looks back over, "So eleven sound good? It's a beautiful course."

Leslie swallows and glances at Ben who looks a little bit like he's being slow-marched to his execution. And she supposes that's her answer, isn't it?

"You know, I'd love to, but there's so much going on with the campaign, and it's a forty-minute drive back to Pawnee. In fact, I shouldn't have stayed this late." She stands and extends her hand, "It was wonderful to meet you both, and really thank you for the support."

Ben moves to join her. "I'll walk you out."

Leslie waves him off. "I'm valet parked, and you all need to catch up. I'll be fine."

She turns away to keep him from reading the lie on her face.

[]

Her phone rings while she's standing outside by the valet desk and there's a surreal moment when she can't actually process the "Ben Wyatt. Pawnee City Government," that flashes across her screen, until finally it sinks in that he must not have changed his cell number, either.

She hits the answer key with trembling fingers. "Hello?"

"So I'm about four years late, but I wanted to call and say congratulations on the election."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Also, I need your advice on something."

She bites her lip, closes her eyes and prays. "Well, I'm usually pretty good with advice. What's up?"

"I ran into someone tonight. Sort of an old flame."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and it was really great to see her, and my friends think she's amazing. And it felt good you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"But the thing is . . . she kind of broke my heart last time."

It hits like a sucker punch and Leslie swallows hard, trying to hold back the tears. "Well, I'm- I'm sure she didn't want to. In fact, I would bet it broke her heart, too."

There's a long pause as he digests that piece of information, and then he exhales. "Yeah. Okay, so here's my dilemma. Like I said, my friends really like her, in fact they invited her to come golfing tomorrow. And when she left, I realized I want her to come, too. But, I don't know, with all of that history do you think it's possible for the two of us to just be friends? Because I'm not sure I can do this any other way."

And there it is, up front and above board and nicely classified. Take it or leave it.

Dear god, this has to be the stupidest, most reckless thing she's ever done.

"I think, um, I think that she would be very lucky and very grateful to have you as a friend, and if she has any sense at all she'd be sure not to jeopardize that."

"So you think I should go after her?"

"I don't know. Do you want to try to be friends?"

"You know I've been thinking about it all night, and I honestly still don't know."

"Oh."

"Yeah. But here's the thing-" Absently, she registers a door opening behind her and suddenly Ben's voice isn't just on the phone. She turns to find him standing at the hotel entrance still holding his cell-phone to his ear, staring at her.

Her heart speeds up at the sight of him. "There's, um, there's a thing?"

"The thing is . . . I'm actually a really terrible golfer, and she's pretty good."

She laughs. "Well that-, that does change everything."

Ben smiles "It does, doesn't it?"

"Definitely. You should definitely go after her."

"You think?"

She nods, "If for no other reason than to save yourself the embarrassment."

"Yeah that's what I thought, too. Okay, I'm gonna go for it."

He ends the call. Walks over to her.

"Hey."

Belatedly Leslie realizes she's still holding her phone to her ear. Drops it awkwardly. "Hey."

"So I, um, I thought about the whole friends thing, and I called and got advice from someone whose opinion I really respect, and-" he shrugs, "I think you should come tomorrow."

"You sure?"

He shakes his head. "No. But come anyway. Okay?"

She smiles.

"Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

Ben is not, as it turns out, a terrible golfer.

He is an _abysmal_ one.

Truly the consistency with which he sucks is actually kind of impressive. Most golfers she knows are only semi-decent at best, but they get one or two great shots a game—a beautiful drive, a spectacular putt—the kind you talk about afterwards, the kind that make you keep coming back. If there's a great shot in Ben's future, he's hiding it well.

By contrast Diane apparently played in college, and Paul is obviously a fan of the sport if not one of it's more accomplished participants. And the imbalance strikes her as peculiar. Usually people like to play with someone who's evenly matched, who won't slow down or speed up their game. But Diane and Paul seem unperturbed by pace, and Ben approaches the whole thing with a strangely good-natured insolence that's almost a statement, that says he's aware of the deficiency and has decided he doesn't care.

By the fourth tee she breaks down and asks, because she has know. "I don't understand. Are you being punished for something?"

"Many things. He is being punished for many things." Paul calls out from behind the cart where he's selecting his club.

Ben stops working on the crossword he has clipped to the steering wheel and looks over at her. "Paul once made the mistake of getting into a two-hour snowball fight the night before his comparative-economics final with someone who grew up in Minnesota and played baseball. Calling it a massacre would be the kind description."

"You sir, cheated."

"There aren't any rules to follow!"

"There are the rules of war, the rules of human decency! You violated the Geneva convention that night."

Diane, who had been in the middle of teeing-off, stops and steps back from her ball to admonish them both. "It was over twenty-years ago children. Now shut-up and let the adults play."

Ben sinks a little in his seat and drops his voice to a whisper. "Because Paul is petty and holds a grudge, we do this once a year for his birthday so he can have the satisfaction of beating me at something."

"And you don't care." Leslie whispers back.

"Nope."

"So at the end of the day, you still win."

He flashes her quick, conspiratorial smile and goes back to his crossword. "Yup."

Leslie blinks and sits back in her seat, trying to come to grips with the fact that Ben, her Ben, nice, sweet, kind-of-dorky Ben, might just be the tiniest bit evil.

That's been the most surprising and difficult thing about this day so far. She'd known it would be awkward. Had been ready for it to be awkward. Painfully so. Had spent the entire forty minute drive-back this morning preparing herself for it—talking herself down, managing her expectations. She was ready for him to regret inviting her, was ready not to quite fit with his friends, was ready for the whole thing to be a disastrous mistake.

What she hadn't been ready for, apparently, was _him_. This him. Ben refracted through the prism of a long-established friendship. It's not that he's a different person with them. He's still everything she remembers, but he's more somehow, like she's finally getting to see the full spectrum, the complete picture. The Ben who's the insider, who has the running jokes she doesn't know, the favorite stories she's never heard, the traditions she's never been a part of.

The Ben she might have met if she hadn't wrapped him up in 'can't' and 'won't' and 'shouldn't' and tucked him away for a later that never came.

She finds herself simultaneously grateful for Paul and Diane and resentful of their presence. They're terribly nice, and their affectionately obnoxious push-pull somehow sets her at ease faster than she ever would have managed on her own, but Ben wears their friendship like armor. He can smile at her and laugh with her and it can all feel pleasant and natural and damn near perfect, but only if Paul and Diane are involved. Only if it's an old-story or a four-way conversation.

Only if it's not actually about the two of them at all.

And she can't decide if it's a shield or sword. Thinks it might be a little bit of both. Thinks that yes he probably wants the protection, the shelter that Paul and Diane afford him. But there's still something cutting about it, something pointed and sharp, that says all too clearly 'I was happy before you, and I've been happy since.'

Says 'I don't need you.'

Leslie isn't entirely sure Ben's the only one being punished today.

[]

Paul kidnaps her somewhere around the sixth green, insisting she start riding with him so they can have their full and frank discourse about his serious and legitimate concerns. Despite Ben and Diane's protests to contrary, Leslie finds arguing with him to be a lot of fun. He's one of those rare individuals who enjoy it for the intellectual exercise more than the victory, and it feels a little like debate prep, sharpening her vision of the kind of public-servant she wants to be on the whetstone of his objections.

They're partway through a bit on trade barriers, when she stumbles onto something she's been trying to articulate for weeks now.

"You're asking me the wrong question."

Paul blinks good-naturedly, "Really? Whether or not you think a protectionist trade stance is harmful to our country's economy isn't relevant?"

"Putting aside the fact that in state government I'll have pretty much no control over international trade? It's still the wrong question."

"Dear it's your turn." Diane calls out.

But Paul just holds up a hand like a pause, his eyes still fixed on Leslie. "Okay, tell me the right one."

She got everyone's attention now, even Ben's. She can almost feel him looking over at her from the other cart. But she doesn't care, for a moment this is beyond that, beyond everything.

"You keep asking me how I think things affect the country as a whole, whether it's good for everyone. But it's the wrong question. It's admirable, but it's too big. I'm not trying to figure out what's best for America. I'm not even trying to figure out what's best for Indiana. I just want to do what's best for my district, for Pawnee and Eagleton and the surrounding communities. I grew up in a town that's gone from four major employers to two, and if someone tells me being a little less global with our trade practices might keep them from going to one? I'd listen. Just the same way I'll pay attention when my small business owners tell me they worry about the impact of healthcare costs on their sustainability or when the teacher's union tells me the current education budget hurts our kids. Ask me whether I think it will benefit my district, my people. Convince me it's in their best interest. That's the right question. They're the ones I'm asking to serve. They're the ones that have to matter to me. Everything else? It's too big. It's noise."

For moment no one says anything, and Leslie is suddenly uncomfortably aware that she's just come alarmingly close to giving a stump speech to three non-constituents in the middle of a golf-course. Dammit, she's always been a little bit too passionate for polite company.

Then Paul purses his lips, nods his head once like he's confirming something and looks over at his wife. "Okay, you can give her our money."

Diane rolls her eyes. "Excellent because I was holding my breath for your approval dear." She hands him a club and points out to the fairway, "Go play now. There's a good boy."

Leslie glances over her shoulder to find Ben still looking at her, his gaze rendered unreadable by the aviator sunglasses he's put on against the noon-day sun.

Steeling herself, she gets up and goes over to him on the pretense of selecting a club from her bag.

"What?"

"Nothing. I-" He stops and gives her a small, bemused smile, "I'd just forgotten exactly how good you are at that."

Pulling a water from the cooler, he extends it out the other side of the cart in a way that invites her to come sit back down beside him.

It's not quite an apology.

But it might be an olive branch.

[]

Later she'll realize she should have seen the next part coming from a mile away. Because neither she nor Ben have ever been called inscrutable. Because Diane is not a stupid woman. Because it's exactly the kind of thing she'd do for one of her friends.

Still when Diane tells her to 'hop-on' in the middle of the thirteenth hole while Ben and Paul go searching for their balls in rough, Leslie fails to see the warning sign before it's too late.

It's not until she driven them up to the green in absolute silence and parked the cart a safe distance away that Leslie knows what's coming.

For a moment, Diane doesn't look at her, just stares straight ahead, as if still coming to a decision about the whole thing. "Paul told me to stay out of this. Told me to leave it alone, but-" she shrugs, presses her lips together in a wan smile, "well, you've seen how well I take orders."

Leslie doesn't say anything. Just because she thinks she knows where this is going, just because she might understand the impulse, it doesn't mean she intends to make it any easier. Maybe there is some argument that Ben's friend has the right to ask what she's about to, but Leslie doesn't really feel like conceding the point.

Finally after another long uncomfortable pause (_and really, why is there never a rabid possum around when you need one?_), Diane turns to her and with a frankness Leslie's learning to expect, asks, "You and Ben were more than colleagues before, weren't you?"

Even though she knew the question was coming, it still raises her hackles, makes her angry. And that's not really a surprise. It's intrusive and personal and puts her immediately on the defensive. What's surprising is what—or more specifically who—she's defending.

"I'm guessing from your question that Ben didn't tell you."

Diane shakes her head. "No. Maybe I had a few suspicions from the way he talked about you. But until I really sat down and thought about it last night when he went after you? No, I didn't know."

"Then, excuse me for saying this, but I think you need to talk to him."

For a long moment Diane holds her gaze, staring her down in quiet challenge, and Leslie finds herself thinking that she's glad she never had this woman for a professor. Frankly if it wasn't about respecting Ben's choices, she'd probably cave. But as it is she just stares right back.

Finally Diane looks away and leans back in her seat, propping a knee up on the steering wheel. "He won't talk to me, not about this. And he won't talk to Paul because unfortunately for Ben we've never been that good at keeping secrets from each other. And you apparently won't talk to either of us, which I actually kind of like. Ben should get a champion. But I've known him longer, and I'm not quite ready to relinquish the role. So I'm going to talk at you for a minute and then as far as I'm concerned this is done. Okay?"

"If I say no, would it stop you?"

"Never has before," she flashes a quick tight smile that's almost a grimace and then sighs, "Okay, so here's the thing. I don't know what happened when he knew you. In fact until I thought about it last night, I'd forgotten he'd taken a job in Pawnee for that year. And I don't know what made him stay or why he left. But here's what I do know: Whatever did or didn't happen, it took us almost a year after he moved up to South Bend to really get our friend back, and I- well, I'm just selfish enough to not want to go through that again."

There's just the tiniest quiver in Diane's voice, an almost imperceptible break. It's small and quickly covered, but it's there all the same and the sound of it, of this unexpected crack in such an impenetrable exterior, cuts sharper and deeper than any rebuke or warning could have.

Because Leslie can only imagine what caused it.

"Look, I-"

But Diane holds up a hand cutting her off. "No, my time's up and you were right. Paul was right, though don't tell him I said that. You don't owe me anything. It's not my business, and frankly now that I've met you, I'm not sure I want it to be my business. Because I really do think you're marvelous and if you're going to be around Ben I'd like it if we could be friends, you know, once you get done hating me for being a busybody. But I think it's fair to warn you that at the end of the day? We'll pick him. Every time."

She's not entirely sure how to respond to that. There's a part of her that wants to tell Diane to go to hell, and there's a part that wants to ask for all the details she can get, and there's a part that just want to hug the other woman for maybe caring about Ben almost as much as she does.

What she winds up saying is.

"Ben should get a champion."

[]

Despite her best intentions, when they all finish the hole and she gets back in the cart, it takes Ben all of three seconds to read how shaken she is and put two and two together.

"Leslie- You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Well, I mean I just did a four-putt on this hole, so obviously that kind of sucked. But other than that I am hunky-dory."

It's probably the unfortunate use of 'hunky-dory' as a viable descriptor of her emotional state that clinches it.

Ben's face goes flat, and he tightens his hands on the steering wheel, the muscles on his forearms tensing with the strain, as his gaze swings over to the other cart where Diane is putting up her clubs and pointedly not looking at them.

"She said something to you, didn't she?"

"It's not a big deal."

But the protest doesn't ring true even to her own ears. Ben leans forward, rests his forehead against his fists, and sighs. "Yeah. Okay."

Only a split second later he seems to decide it's not okay at all because he's up out of the cart, and Leslie has to lean over the seat to grab his hand to stop him. "Don't. Please."

That makes him pause, and he looks down at her, his expression softening into something she can't quite read. God, she wishes he would take those sunglasses off so she could see his eyes, know what he's thinking.

After a brief second of decision, he gives her hand a tiny squeeze of reassurance and sits back down with a sigh, motioning to Paul to go on without them when the other man hesitates.

Finally, he takes off his sunglasses and rubs a hand over his eyes, muttering, "Diane needs to learn to mind her own business."

"She was just trying to look out for you. Really it's okay."

And it is actually. Okay, she's probably not going to be adding the other woman to her speed dial any time soon, but well- It came from a good place, and Leslie gets the impulse, and frankly somehow Ben's reaction on her behalf, knowing that whatever he might feel, however he might want to punish her, he doesn't want anyone else to do it? It makes it all kind of worth it.

But Ben's not so easily reassured.

"Leslie, whatever she said to you. Just-" he sighs, "Just ignore it all right. She doesn't know what she's talking about and it's not her place to-"

"To worry about you?"

"I was going to say meddle." He shakes his head in exasperation. "I have two sisters and a mother, and Diane can't look after a houseplant. You'd think she'd leave it to the professionals."

They exchange a brief companionable smile at that, then look away and fall silent again.

Leslie looks down at her hands and debates what she's about to say, turns it over and over in her head, looking for an out. Because she doesn't want to say it, really she just- She wants this. Or at least what it feels like this could be, what it could grow into. She's not stupid. She knows better than to wish for what they used to have. As much as she misses it, misses him, she has enough distance now to know it was unstable. It was electric and all-consuming and wonderful and she'd never give a single second of it back. But it was a firework, never meant to last beyond that brief, brilliant, breath-taking instant.

But there's still something left, she can feel it. A cinder, a spark, an ember in the ashes. It's small and might be all too easily extinguished, but it's there and she thinks given time and space and breathing room it could grow, could be something strong and warm and steady. And maybe it will never be a roaring fire, maybe it will always just be that small glowing ember to hold in her hands and take the edge of the chill. But she thinks she'd like that all same. Maybe even more. After all, the ember is less likely to burn.

Still she can't get that hitch in Diane's voice, that break in her composure and all that it implied, out of her head.

"Maybe she's right to worry. Maybe this isn't a good idea." It comes out surprisingly calm, certainly far steadier and less needy than she feels, and Leslie hates herself just a little for how rational she sounds about the whole thing when Ben's head snaps up in surprise and disbelief.

For a moment he just stares at her and there are dozen emotions running across his face—shock, frustration, anger. Even a tiny flicker of relief that dances through his eyes and makes her heart sink. But it's quickly followed by something else, something writ large and strong, that settles in and takes up residence—disappointment.

"Is that- I mean, is that what you think?" he ventures, trying to cover it. Slipping into that attempt at professional detachment they both tend to fall back on when they're trying not to let their emotions get the best of them and are about three seconds away from failing miserably.

And even though the sight makes her heart want to do a celebratory jig, she forces it to sit down and shut up. This is too important to gloss over simply because it would make her happy.

"I don't know. I mean I know what I want. That hasn't changed since last night. But-" she trails off.

"But?" Ben prompts.

"Diane said some things about, um," she stumbles a little, forces herself to regroup, "about how you were after you left Pawnee."

"Ah." He leaves it there for a beat, and while he doesn't turn away, his eyes shift a little so he can stare past her over her shoulder. Then he shrugs in offhand dismissal, "Well, I'm not going to tell you it was fun. But here I am. I survived, and I'm fine."

"Ben-"

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't really want to do a play by play of that time with you. At least-" he breaks off and runs a hand over his face. Looks back over at her, something resigned and tired in his eyes, and sighs, "I just- I was having a good time today. With you."

"So was I."

"Yeah?"

She gives him a small smile. "Yeah. Absolutely."

"Could we maybe just do that, then? Could we maybe just take everything else off the table for a little while and do that?"

"I just don't want you to feel obligated or-"

Ben shakes his head and laughs under his breath. "God, you're as bad as Diane. You know, despite all apparent female opinions to the contrary, I'm a pretty well-adjusted guy, fully capable of taking care of myself. So just let me do that, okay? Let me figure out my end and trust me when I tell you what that is. _That's_what I want right now. Can you give me that?"

Leslie nods, bites down a smile. "Yes. Yes, I can give you that."

"Okay then." He turns back to face forward as if to close the book on the subject. Taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. "So we should probably go try to catch up with Paul and Diane."

"Probably."

Neither one of them sounds particularly thrilled about the prospect.

Ben doesn't release the brake. Taps his thumbs a little more, thinking.

"Oooor," he drags the word out, and tilts his head over towards her, "We could just skip ahead to the burgers and beers at the clubhouse and wait for them there."

"Wouldn't that kind of undermine Paul's birthday retribution?"

Frowning like the thought had never occurred to him, he nods slowly, "You know, it probably would."

"So we probably shouldn't do that then."

He shifts the cart into drive and grins. "Probably not."

They wave at Paul and Diane when they pass by and get a table out on the deck, taking advantage of a rare sunny April day and the pleasant, mild spring breeze.

It takes them a little while to get their footing again, but they finally find solid, comfortable ground in the trials and tribulations of playing god-parents to children of first-time mothers. Ann and Greg (_the high-school principal Ann never really wanted Leslie to date after all_) have become the ecstatic, sleep-deprived parents of a gorgeous five-month old baby-girl named Abigail, who Leslie can already tell is going to be brilliant Supreme Court Justice (_it's all in the eyes, they're very wise_). Greg is of course convinced his daughter is going to follow in her mother's footsteps and go into medicine. Ann keeps saying she just wants Abigail to sleep through the night.

Ben's younger sister, Lauren, an apparently fairly high-strung attorney up in Chicago (_and there's a quiet kind of guilt in his eyes when he describes her, that makes Leslie wonder if he takes some of the blame for that, if he thinks Lauren would have turned out differently if she hadn't grown up in Partridge with the last name Wyatt_), had a son two years ago. And Leslie can tell from the way Ben talks about him that as much as he loves his work and Indianapolis and milder winters, he still misses being close to his nephew.

There's a brief moment when she has the impulse to ask him if he's ever wanted children, but as soon as the though occurs to her, the memory of what she'd said in the hotel room (_"We've never talked about whether you believe in marriage or if you want kids"_) comes with it and she shuts it down.

Just this for a little while. That's what he asked for. She can give him that.

[]

By the time the other couple joins them, they've fallen into an easy rhythm that reminds her how good at this they used to be. The burgers are delicious and the beers are cold and Ben keeps urging her to try his sweet potato fries, and it feels nice, feels uncomplicated and natural.

Feels like something stable. Something that could endure.

When they come over, Paul wastes no time slumping down in the chair beside Ben with groan, signaling to the waitress to bring another round of beers over to the table as he does so. But Diane hesitates, catching Leslie's eye as if seeking permission. It's a small thing, and maybe you could argue it was empty (_they both know she's not going to say no_), but it doesn't feel that way, and Leslie appreciates the gesture.

She points over to Ben's plate. "You should try one of those fries. He keeps telling me how good they are, but I'm waiting on a second opinion."

It's all the invitation Diane needs. Smiling she reaches over her husband to grab one of the fries, chewing thoughtfully as she sits down.

"Oh no," she shakes her head even as she's pulling the plate towards her. "You don't want any of these. They're terrible."

She pops another on in her mouth.

"Hey!" Ben protests.

Leslie laughs, "See that's what I thought."

All in all, it winds up being a very good day.

[]

It's not perfect of course.

They're not perfect.

There's still something tentative and fragile about them. They stumble into the occasional uncomfortable silence, make a misstep into memories they're not ready to dissect.

She invites him to come with her to the pancake dinner in Eagleton that evening on impulse and knows immediately from his face she's reached for too much too soon.

He stutters about Paul's birthday, and she fumbles to reassure him it was just an idea and their goodbyes end on a more awkward note than she would have liked.

But there's a text-message from him on her phone that night, saying he had a great time and reiterating his offer to buy her lunch if she's ever up in Indy.

And he sounds genuinely pleased when she calls a few days later to say 'thank you' for the golf-outing.

And it doesn't necessarily feel like the beginning of a passionate affair or a grand romance or even a lifelong friendship.

But it does feel like a beginning all the same.

[]

Still that might have been it. They might have been nothing more than Christmas cards and the occasional email and lunch once a year when the other's in town. Friendly and companionable, but distant, removed.

Might have been all, were it not for Diane.

Diane calls in early May and announces without introduction or preamble, "Before you hang up on me, just know that my intentions are honorable. There are brilliant you minds at stake here."

It takes her a moment to put the whiskey-smoke voice and Indianapolis area-code together and by the time she does Diane's halfway through her pitch for Leslie to come fill a slot on the capstone panel for her leadership course in two days. "I wouldn't do this, really I wouldn't, but the flaky bastard cancelled last minute, and I asked Ben, but you know how he is with crowds, so he told me to call you, and I am seriously two seconds away from begging here."

She really wishes she'd caught up earlier. It would have been easier to refuse. Still she gives it her best shot. "I'm sure there are people your students would be more interested in hearing from."

"It's not about the resume. It's about perseverance. These kids are the best the university has. They've been at the top of their classes the past four years, and they're about to go out into a world where success isn't instant or guaranteed no matter how smart or talented they are. I want to give them panelists who've kept at it. And I want to give them panelists who will take their calls six months from now." In a wheedling tone she adds, "I'll set up interviews beforehand with two hardworking freshman from your district who are willing to volunteer for credit."

Leslie sighs, sensing impending defeat. "You really don't take no for an answer, do you?"

"Oh, like you do."

Fine, she has a point.

[]

The panel actually turns out to be a lot of fun. Diane's put together an incredibly eclectic group of speakers, and true to her statements on the phone, Leslie can immediately see it's not about the resume at all. There are no judges, no surgeons, no whizkid entrepreneurs. Instead it's people with stories that are, in their own ways, similar to hers—a successful female restaurateur who first business failed, a marketing executive who went back to school at fifty to become a math teacher, a thirty-two year old summa-cum-laude graduate who deferred law school when his mother was diagnosed with bone-cancer and wound up directing a not-for-profit instead—passionate, ordinary people who simply endured.

Leslie's always enjoyed an audience, and the students are for the most part surprisingly attentive, and she's a little giddy by the time it's over. High on the number of students who come up to talk to her afterwards, on the realization that they actually found her story inspirational, might even view her as a role-model. And when Diane offers to take her out to lunch in thanks she agrees readily.

"Sure, is there some place good around campus?"

"Eh, there's a few, but it's such a nice day I thought we might go down and eat on the Canal Walk. Ben's office is only a couple blocks away, we could kidnap him, force him to see sunlight? I owe him for suggesting I give you a call, but-" she shrugs, "your choice."

Leslie hesitates for a moment, but only a moment. They've spoken a couples times on the phone the past few weeks, at his initiation as well as hers, but there's a persistent question mark that continues to hang over her every time she thinks about calling, that lingering need for an excuse. And here an excuse is, readymade.

"The Canal Walk sounds great, if you don't think Ben will mind."

[]

Ben turns out not to mind at all. Either that or like Leslie he's learned the futility of trying to say no to Diane. When she knocks on his open office-door with a sharp rat-tat-tat and announces, "Grab your wallet, you're taking us out to lunch," Ben doesn't even look up from his computer, just holds up a finger as he finishes reviewing something on the screen.

The photo triptych of the Harvest Festival hangs on the wall across from his desk, and the sight makes Leslie smile. Without thinking she says, "You kept it."

At the sound of her voice, Ben knocks over his pen cup.

Leslie kneels down on the floor with him to help clean up. Diane goes to steal chocolate from his assistant.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you."

"Yeah, no, you didn't- I mean you did, but it's not- You're not-" He drops his head, blows out a breath, and looks back up at her over his glasses (_she's never going to get used to that_) with a rueful smile. "Hi."

"Hi."

"So I'm taking you two out to lunch, huh?"

"Apparently."

[]

Despite her proclamations to the contrary, Diane actually does pay for lunch. Unfortunately she does it halfway through the meal by throwing down a few twenties on the table when she gets a phone-call from her graduate assistant. "Darby- No, Darby listen to me, we can get the visa issues worked out. Call international admissions and have them pull the file. I'll be back in thirty minutes and we can talk with the vice-provost. Darby, calm down."

Covering her phone with her hand, she looks over at Leslie in apology and whispers, "I'm sorry about this. If you want to get a box for that, I can drop you off at your car on the way back."

Ben speaks up before she gets a chance to respond. "You go ahead. I'll take her back."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I mean unless Leslie needs to get going."

They both look over at her in askance. She shakes her head, "Umm, no, no I don't have to get back."

Diane sighs in relief, "Wonderful. Leslie, you were a lifesaver, thank you. Ben, next Saturday when Paul gets in. Brisket, right?"

He nods and makes 'shooing' motions with his hands, mouthing 'Go,' until Diane finally takes direction and hurries off, phone glued to her ear. "Darby, just tell them . . ."

Leslie looks after her and asks, "What was that all about?"

Ben shakes his head. "Not the slightest clue."

"Thanks for offering to take me back."

"Well, you're only halfway through your lunch. It seemed silly to cut things short just because of that." He leans back in his chair and looks up at the sky, "Besides it's a really nice day, and I don't have anything all that pressing on my desk for once. There's every possibility I'm using you as an excuse to play hooky for a little while."

She laughs and spears another bite of her pasta, "Then I'm happy to help."

"Good, and stop picking the asparagus out it's the best part."

Just for that she starts putting the asparagus on his plate instead.

He actually eats it.

Sometimes she really worries about him.

[]

As if by some mutual, unspoken agreement they don't go back to his office immediately after lunch. Instead they amble down the Canal Walk, stopping for iced coffee at a café obviously geared more towards the medical students than the government workers. There's a rubber-duck race happening in the Canal (_for what she doesn't know_) and they sit on one of the benches, watching the mass of bath toys floating by, debating the appropriate nomenclature (_Leslie disputes the word hoard as too aggressive, but Ben thinks flock is an inadequate description_), and rooting for ducks of their choosing in made up mini-races.

It is also possible that Leslie sings 'Rubber Ducky You're the One' more than once, but of course that's ridiculous, she's running for the State Assembly and is far too mature for such nonsense. (_Plus Ben swears not to tell_).

They're having a such a good time, that Leslie actually looks twice at the clock on her phone before she believes it's as late as it is. "Wow, I'm sorry. You probably need to get back."

Ben pulls out his phone, checking it. "Well, I don't have any messages, and from my email it doesn't look like anyone's trying to burn the place down." He slips it back into his pocket. "Unless you want to get back to Pawnee before dark, I'm good."

"You're committed to this hooky concept, aren't you?"

"What can I say? You're a bad influence," he teases.

"Ben Wyatt! You take that back. I have never been a bad influence in my life."

That makes him raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Never?"

Leslie crosses her arms and puts on her most superior face. "Not once."

Ben starts to protest, then stops and shakes his head. "You know what? I actually believe that."

He's looking at her as he says it, elbow propped on the bench, head in his hand, and there's something in his face, something wistful and dangerously fond that reaches in and tugs at the strings tied around the box of emotions she's put in the back corner and labeled 'off-limits.' She drops her gaze, fighting back the flush she can feel creeping up her neck.

As if suddenly aware of the inadvertent turn, Ben shifts in his seat and clears his throat self-consciously. "I, um, I need to tell you something. I mean maybe I don't need to tell you, maybe it doesn't matter. I hope it doesn't matter, but I don't want to um-"

Because he might go on like this for another minute if she doesn't do anything, Leslie reaches out and briefly touches his arm to stop him, pull him back. "What?"

Still not looking her, he clamps his mouth shut, his other hand moving absently to cover the spot on his forearm where her fingers just were. Finally after an excruciating few seconds, he speaks.

"I have a date this Saturday."

There's a moment right after he says it, where she thinks she might have hallucinated it, where her mind actually rejects the concept. But Ben's still talking and she can feel at least part of her, a rational centered part of her, absorbing the words, acknowledging the reality.

"As I said, I'm hoping it doesn't matter, and I'm probably making an ass of myself by even thinking it might. But I don't- I want to be upfront about this. We said friends, but I didn't want you thinking that maybe I was playing games or being coy. God, I actually just used the word coy, didn't I?"

"You did."

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, "Just- just stop me, please."

Leslie doesn't say anything immediately, just finishes her coffee and gets up to go throw it away, buying time. This was going to happen. She knew this was going to happen. Somewhere deep down, she knew it. They don't have any claims on each other. They can't. Anything else would be messy and unhealthy. Old patterns they shouldn't fall into. Sooner or later this needed to happen.

It doesn't make it hurt any less.

But at the same time, she finds herself strangely . . . relieved. It's an odd sensation. Knowing some part of her still wants him, probably even still loves him, and yet knowing she's half-terrified of the prospect that he might feel the same way, because she's not sure she wants the responsibility, the obligation that would come with that. It helps in a way, knowing exactly where she stands, having such clear lines of demarcation, takes the pressure off, gives them room to breathe. It's like a lancing a wound, unpleasant, even painful, but necessary if you want it to heal.

She turns to find him watching her from the bench, face guarded, but still so easy to read. He wants her to be okay with this, needs it even.

Walking over, she sits back down beside him. "What's her name?"

He blows out a breath. "Lauren."

"Is she nice?"

"Well, it's our first date, so I can't be certain, but-" he shakes his head "no, I'm pretty sure she's awful."

His delivery is so perfectly deadpan, Leslie laughs despite herself. "Come on, I'm trying here."

Ben smiles. "Yes. I met her at the dog park. She seems nice."

"Good. You deserve someone nice."

He looks over at her. "Thank you."

It's quiet and grateful and about much more than what she just said about him deserving someone nice. And it feels like they've come to some kind of new understanding, moved to new ground.

She smiles at him, then gets up before it can take a wrong turn, adding as she does, "Just a little tip though, do not offer her the free MRI on the first date. It may sound sexy, but trust me it just gets weird."

He laughs and moves to follow her. "I'm afraid to ask."

"Oh also, don't show up with another woman. Or light your sleeve on fire. In fact you should try to stay away from fire in general."

"No other women and no fire. Check."

"And Ambien. Don't take Ambien beforehand."

"I feel like maybe I should be writing this down."

"Probably."

"Anything else I should know? I want the full benefit of your experience here."

"You could try showing up drunk at her house the night before to tell her how awesome the date will be. I've had some success with that."

"Oooh," he shakes his head, "I don't know. That sounds like a level of difficulty I might not be ready for."

"Amateur."

[]

She'd been a little afraid that she'd obsess over Ben's date, that she'd watch the clock on Saturday night and wonder how things were going. But Saturday comes and she volunteers to babysit for the evening so Ann and Greg can have their first night out in six months, and between Abigail's new fondness of rolling as her primary mode of transportation and Ann's check-in phone-calls every hour, she's pretty much forgotten anyone named Ben exists.

So when her phone rings at nine-thirty less than twenty minutes after Ann's last check-in, her choice to answer with a slightly irritated, "She's fine. She's sleeping. Go back in the movie and give Greg your phone," is perfectly justified.

"Okay, I don't know what's happening here."

At the sound of Ben's voice, Leslie sits bolt upright and the board book that had been lying splayed on her stomach goes tumbling to the floor with a clatter. She freezes, holds her breath and prays to whatever gods watch over babysitters—_Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up_.

"Leslie, whats-"

"Shhhh." she hisses.

"But-"

"Shhhh."

Getting up from couch, she picks up the baby monitor and tiptoes out to the front porch. "Okay it's safe now."

"Are you under-attack?"

"Baby-sitting. I just got Abigail to sleep."

"Ah."

Then it hits her what time it is. "Wait, aren't you supposed to be on a date right now? Why are you calling me?"

"Yeah, about that." Ben gives a low mirthless chuckle and a sigh, "So I have a new one for your list. Don't order the veal saltimbocca before you find out whether or not your date happens to be a vegan for reasons of conscience."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. And you know, the worst part-"

"You never got the veal."

"Never got the veal. Ended with the appetizers."

"Wow."

"Tell me about it. It's the dish they were known for, too," he sighs, "So you're my bad first date Yoda. What's the next step here?"

That one's easy. "Alcohol."

"Okay. Classics. Good. Now will beer do or do I need something else?"

"I usually go for something pink with an umbrella."

"Yeah. I'm not doing that."

"Then beer is probably fine. Oh also, eat something since you haven't had dinner yet. Or there could be embarrassing text messages in your future."

"Good call. Anything else?"

She sets the baby-monitor down on the table and sits on one of the chairs, tucking her bare-feet underneath her. "Well you're probably going to have to find another dog-park for awhile or at least start going at another time."

Ben groans. "Harrison's never going to forgive me."

"You named your dog-" she shakes her head and laughs, "never mind I don't want to know."

"It's a perfectly good name."

"Have you ever considered that you might be taking your Star Wars obsession a little far?"

"No."

"Well okay then."

"So alcohol, no drunk text-messaging and concerted avoidance. Anything else?"

"Other than just trying again? That's really all I've got."

"Really, you're really giving me 'if at first you don't succeed?'"

"What can I say? It's a cliché because it's true. You're a good guy. Any woman would be lucky to have you. If this Lauren person couldn't see that, it's her loss. I'm sure the next one will."

She says it without thinking. Says it because it's what you say to a friend when they've had a bad date. Says it because it's true. And it's only in the after, in the echo that she can see the warning signs, the cliff she's inadvertently steered them towards. (_If he's such a good guy, if any woman would be lucky, then why not her? If it's so obvious, why didn't she see it?_) At the moment she's not sure she has a good answer.

But Ben either doesn't hear it, or chooses to ignore it because his response remains light and untroubled. "All the same, for the sake of peace in my house, I think I'm declaring the dog park off-limits as a dating-pool."

Leslie releases a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Well, I'm sure Harrison will appreciate the gesture."

"I don't know he's kind of a player."

She winces on his behalf. "Yeah, don't use that word again. Ever."

[]

It actually gets better after that. They're able to stop dancing around the issue, to stop circling each other quite so carefully, and they settle into the business of actually being friends with an unexpected aptitude. She no longer tries to come up with an excuse to call him beyond the fact she wants to talk. He no longer sounds half-surprised, half-on-guard every time he answers the phone.

They don't talk all the time. They're both far too busy for that. But there's a two week period in late June when she gets tied up with the mayhem that always comes with city council's vote on the budget for the coming fiscal year and Ben actually winds up sending an email to her work account asking if everything's okay because he hadn't heard from her in awhile.

She meets him once more for lunch when she goes shopping up in Indy for new suits, and he finds a summer music festival in Brown County that they'll each only have to drive an hour to get to.

It's surprisingly nice having him on her speed dial again. Ann's still her very best-friend and they'd still drop everything if the other needed something, but their lives are doing that thing that happens when you have different priorities. Abigail is Ann's world right now, and rightfully so, and Leslie really can't begrudge her the fact that she doesn't want to spend what might be her only thirty free minutes of the day listening to the ins and outs of a proposed zoning rule. Ben not only listens, but he contributes. Sometimes by offering a perspective she doesn't particularly want to hear, but contributes all the same. And she realizes it's been a long time since she's had a friend who cared about the same things she does and who didn't work for her (_because it does matter, no matter how much she wishes it didn't_).

Not that they just talk about their work. In fact that's the best part—how much they don't talk about work. After eight months of self-imposed professionalism and nearly five years of radio silence, they seem to be almost greedy for the opportunity to simply talk about anything and everything. No subject is too ridiculous, no topic too personal (_well except for the obvious, but they've gotten very good at maneuvering around that particular curve_). Ben tells her about getting death threats in the first town he audited, and she tells him about getting turned down for three other jobs before she got hired on to the Parks department.

She calls him the day she sees Jessica with her mother in a grocery store over in Eagleton and can't think of anything to say. He calls ten minutes before he has to go in to give a report to a Senate subcommittee he knows they aren't going to want to hear.

One rainy Sunday afternoon in early July, Ben calls for no other reason than he's bored, and they spend an hour talking about everything from herb-gardens to her efforts to put a community garden in the pit (_and the subsequent great-pot-grower stakeout_) to his mother's talent for making jam and her mother's talent for making political allies and enemies.

"Is that what got you into politics? Your mom?"

"Well a lot of things got me into politics. I mean Pawnee's such a great city. Who wouldn't want to be a part of that?"

"Yeah but when you clear all that away and stop practicing campaign answers for three seconds. Your mom was at least part of it, right?"

Leslie looks over at the framed picture on her mantle of her mother on the phone in her office, face alight, gesturing emphatically. She'd snuck it with her camera phone a few years back, and it's still one of her favorites. Marlene Griggs-Knope in her element.

"You should have seen her run a school board meeting."

"I can imagine."

"I used to go and sit in the back and watch. And there would be all these men. These principals and businessmen and teachers union reps who would come in and they'd be used to getting their way. But my mom could put them in their place with a look. I wanted to be just like her."

Ben doesn't respond immediately, and then, "Okay, I'm going to say something and don't take this the wrong way, but . . . I'm kind of glad you're not. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure your mom is great and everything, but I don't know I'm having a hard time picturing her as the kind of person who'd come up with something like the Harvest Festival to save her friends' jobs."

And even though Leslie's long ago come to terms with the fact that she and her mother are very different people, that for all she admires her mother and for all she wants her to be proud, she needs to do things her way, it's still means something to hear someone else tell her that's okay.

"Thank you for that."

"Hey, I'm just telling the truth. Given the choice, I'll take a Leslie Knope every time."

"Watch out or I'm putting that on a campaign poster."

[]

He goes on at least one more date that she knows of. Leslie tells him to have a great time and is almost eighty-five percent certain she really means it.

She doesn't date anyone, but that has more to do with her schedule than anything else. The campaign is shifting into another gear completely, and she's still trying to juggle her city council responsibilities. And now is not the time to be starting a relationship while she's under at least limited public scrutiny, and there are actually some nights she's so tired that anything requiring more effort than pulling her pajamas sounds like too much work.

Once the election comes and goes there will be plenty of time to worry about her personal life.

It doesn't have anything to do with Ben.

She's almost eighty-five percent certain she really means that.

[]

Ben comes down to Snerling in late July for a three-day due-diligence review prior to approving a special construction bond issue, and makes the forty-minute drive over to Pawnee one-night for dinner.

Because it's first time he's been back since leaving and Leslie can't resist, she calls Tom and enlists his help in rounding up people to come to the Snakehole Lounge that evening in a mini-reunion.

And even though she's generally avoided the club since taking public office, the look on Ben's face when she drags him inside is completely worth the relatively minor risk of negative publicity.

Later that night he smiles down at her, his expression happy and open and adorably incredulous, "I can't believe you did this."

She grins back, "I told you, you'd be missed."

The bar is loud and warm, and they're standing closer than usual, yelling in each other's ears over the music in order to be heard. Someone jostles her from behind, and he brings a hand to her elbow to steady her at the same time she puts a palm on his chest to keep her balance, and for a moment she is sharply, painfully aware of him. The fabric of his shirt under her fingers, the touch of his hand on her upper arm, the way he still smells faintly of coffee and Irish Spring soap and printer ink.

And in that moment, for just that moment, every emotion and sense memory that she's shoved down and pushed aside comes to the surface in a heady, dizzying rush. Ben looks down at her, expression unreadable in the dim lighting, and all she can think is if he kissed her right now she'd be totally lost.

He lowers his head.

"You okay?"

She blinks and takes a step back. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I, um, I don't think my tolerance is what it used to be."

Ben smiles. "Me neither. How about I go get us some ice waters, okay?"

Leslie nods and goes to sit down on one of the couches.

Tells herself she just avoided a mistake rather than missed an opportunity.

[]

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

Ann wakes her up at the crack of dawn the next morning (_Abigail's early a.m. feedings aren't just screwing up the sleep-schedule in the Perkins-Russell household. Oh no._)

"Leslie Knope you get your as- keister over here now!"

Sometimes Leslie longs for the days when Ann didn't need to find child-appropriate swear words. Other times she finds it hilarious. She'll get back to you on which this is.

"Wha-? What is going on?"

"What's going on? What's going on? Oh nothing except I just saw Tom's Facebook update."

Wait. That seems important for some reason.

Oh! She sits up. "I'm not doing anything embarrassing, am I? Please tell me I'm not wearing a mermaid outfit."

"Why would you even- Never mind." Then Ann, bless her heart, keys in on the source of Leslie's hysteria, and her voice turns placating. "Don't worry, they're all perfectly respectable pictures. You're not in that many and you look great. You could probably even use one or two for campaign shots if you could photoshop the daiquiri out."

"Oh, good," she lets out a relieved sigh, then the disconnect sets in. "Wait, then why are you calling if there's nothing wrong with the pictures?"

"Oh I didn't say that."

"You just said they were respectable."

"That's not the problem."

"Then what?"

"Ben Wyatt! What is Ben Wyatt doing in Tom's Facebook update holding your arm?"

Oh.

That.

"That's um. That's kind of a long story."

"I'm sure it is. Your rear-end at my kitchen table in twenty-minutes. And bring waffles with you as a stupid-head tax."

Yeah, remember what she said about sometimes finding Ann's new vocabulary choices hilarious? This isn't one of those times.

**00**

Leslie shows up with waffles as ordered and really strong coffee as a bribe (_because Ann's mom voice is somehow ten-times more commanding than the nurse-voice and Leslie never had any resistance to the nurse voice to begin with_). And Ann makes her sit down at the kitchen-table and give her the play-by-play of the last three-and-a-half months while she feeds Abigail.

It takes a little while, partly because Abigail is displaying a stubborn streak, so there's a lot of stopping to imitate airplanes and make funny faces and generally convince her that pureed carrots are the best thing ever (_Abigail's not buying it. See, very wise. Supreme Court here we come._) But also partly because Leslie apparently needed to just say it all out loud more than she realized, and once she starts she can't seem to stop.

By the time she's done telling the story, Ann has finished the extra-strong coffee she brought with her and has gotten up to make a fresh pot.

"So, um, that's it. We're just friends. It's not a big deal. Really."

Ann gapes, then picks up one Abigail's squishy building blocks and hurls it across the kitchen at her. "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

Leslie throws up her hands, warding off the assault. "It wasn't deliberate."

"You told Tom!"

"I didn't." Another block. "Okay, yes, I did. But just that Ben was coming to town, and I asked him to invite all the people Ben used to work with. But he doesn't know about-" she waves her hands vaguely, "everything else. Nobody does. It's not like we advertised it back then."

"Tell me about it." Ann grumbles, comes around to sit back down at the kitchen table. "I can't believe you're doing this again."

"I'm not." This time the protest comes in the form of a cheerio from Abigail who has apparently decided throwing things at Aunt Leslie is a brilliant brand-new game her mom made up.

Ann crosses her arms and gives her a look that clearly says 'see even your god-daughter is calling your bullshit' (_and apparently her face is still allowed to use the adult expletive_).

Leslie glares over at the nine-month-old. "Traitor." Abigail throws another cheerio from her highchair and laughs. Help is obviously not going to be found in that quarter. She turns back to Ann. "Seriously though, there is nothing more going on than what I told you. We met up at the fundraiser. We talked. We decided to try and see if we could be friends and it turns out we can. End of story."

"Then why didn't you tell me about this when it all started? Leslie you call to tell me you're thinking about changing shampoo brands."

"That's an important, personal decision. It requires a lot of thought and input."

Ann looks over at her daughter. "Abby do you need mommy to get you more Cheerios?"

"Okay!" Leslie holds up her hands in surrender. "Stop using your baby as your enforcer. I don't know why I didn't say anything. I guess, for awhile I didn't really think there was anything to tell. I saw him, we played golf, we had a few phone-calls, but it didn't seem like it was actually gonna be a thing. Also-"

She breaks off not really sure how to say the next part.

"Also, what?" Leslie squinches up her face and turns away, trying to avoid the subject, but Ann persists. "Leslies come on, also what? Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Leslie Knope, you tell me right now."

Rocking a little her chair in a pout, she groans. "All right, all right. I didn't tell you because I knew you were going to think it was a bad idea."

"Oh sweetie." Ann reaches across the kitchen table and puts a hand over hers.

"So you don't think it's a bad idea?" Leslie asks hopefully.

"No." Ann shakes her head, "It's absolutely a _terrible_idea. Leslie, this guy broke your heart into a million tiny little pieces. I don't understand why you even want to be friends with him, let alone how you could be."

"That wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."

"He left you!"

Leslie closes her eyes and drops her head. And here they are at the other reason that she never mentioned Ben's reappearance in her life to Ann. Because they've never actually had a real conversation about what happened with Ben. Ann put a lot of things together and made a few assumptions, and she was ninety-five percent right, and Leslie just appreciated her silent support so much, she never quite got around to correcting the five percent Ann got wrong.

Ann's putting it together now. "What? What am I missing?"

"He didn't leave me."

"You have another name for moving over five hours away?"

"No I mean-" God, she's never actually said any of this out loud, to anyone, and it feels a little bit like she's suddenly reliving the moment all over again. She swallows, presses on. "He offered to stay."

"Wha-?" Ann whispers, not quite managing to get the whole word out.

It's like a damn breaking and suddenly everything is coming out in a rush. "He had an email written turning down the job and everything. And all I had to do was say yes and he would have stayed. But it meant he would have had to quit his job with the City and take something he didn't really want, and I had just gotten offered the opportunity to run for city council and that job in South Bend was his dream, and I-" her voice catches, "I couldn't Ann. I just couldn't."

"Ohh." All of Ann's anger melts away, and she comes around to sit beside her, pulling her into a hug. "Oh sweetie. I'm so sorry. All those times I called Ben names. I just wish you had told me. Why would you ever think you couldn't tell me this?"

Leslie shakes her head, and Ann just pulls her closer.

This is of course the moment Abigail decides to start bawling her head off. Pulling away, Ann gives her an apologetic look, then gets up to go tend to her daughter. Leslie tries to use the time to regroup, gather her thoughts together in some semblance of order.

Finally when Ann sit back down with a now changed and placated Abigail in her arms, Leslie at least has a kind of an answer. Not that it's necessarily a good one, but . . . it's the best she's got.

"I think I didn't tell you because I needed someone around who was one hundred percent on my side. Who didn't think I was the bad guy."

"And you thought I wouldn't be on your side if I knew what had happened?"

"I don't know. There were days _I_wasn't on my side. There were times right after he left that I woke up, and I missed him so much and all I could think was: 'What have I done?' Sometimes it was nice to just go out with you and pretend like it really was like any other breakup and 'all men are dogs' actually applied."

"Yeah, but I could have done that anyways. I can do it now. Watch-" she shifts Abigail to rest up against her shoulder and puts on her best 'bitching' face, "I can't believe he put all that pressure on you. That was soooo unfair. Why can't guys just make a decision? Like you didn't have enough to worry about with everything else going on. Didn't he know that?" She drops the act and smiles, "See totally could have pulled it off."

Leslie huffs a small laugh under her breath. "Thanks for that."

"All part of the service." Then her face shifts into something more serious. "But I've got to ask. Leslie do you really think you made a mistake? Because if you do, if this is about some kind of regret or trying to go back, then what you're doing now-" she shakes her head, "it's a _really_bad idea. Cause I got to say from everything you told me, it sounds like he's pretty established up there in Indy."

"And I'm only going to get even more established down here. You don't get to move out of the district if it votes you into office. Believe me I know."

Ann blinks in surprise. "You've thought about this."

"I did. Once. A little while ago. I sat down one night and forced myself to really sort through all my expectations, make sure they were realistic. Last time, I just wanted to believe so badly that everything would magically work out that I let myself get carried away. I didn't want to run the risk of doing that again."

"And?"

"And I don't know whether I made a mistake or not. But I do know that I love my life right now. That at this moment I'm really happy, and Ben's a part of that but he's not all of it. He's not even the biggest or second biggest part. He's like number five or something."

"Five?"

"Four tops. Look, we're friends. That's what we've agreed upon. He's made it very clear that he doesn't want anything else from me, and you know, after thinking about it, I'm not sure I want anything else from him. Our lives just don't-" she gropes for the word, "_fit_any other way. I think if we tried to force them to, something would just get broken. And I like what we have right now enough not to want to risk that."

"Wow, that- That is really mature." Ann takes a sip of her coffee and adds, "Of course, it's also complete-" Glancing down at her daughter, she covers Abigail's ears and says the last word, in an exaggerated all-caps stage-whisper, "C-R-A-P. It's complete crap."

"Wha-? Why?"

"You still have feelings for him!"

"I do not." Yeah, okay, she's totally lying and even Abigail knows it. So. Not. The. Point.

Ann completely ignores her protest. "Big Feelings. Big 'insert needed rationalization here' feelings. You say things like 'we've agreed to be friends' and 'our lives don't fit' and all I hear is 'blah, blah, I want to kiss him, blah, blah, blah I'd jump his bones if he moved here tomorrow, bladdity blah.' Come on, I'm a little bit right here."

The memory of last night in the club and how badly she'd wanted him to kiss her, flashes through her mind too fresh to be effectively shoved away, and Leslie drops her face to her hands trying to hide the flush she can feel on her cheeks. Half groans, half-laughs, "Maybe a little."

"Ha-ha! Knew it. I knew it." Ann gloats. Bouncing Abigail in her arms, she talks to her daughter, "Your Aunt Leslie may be a big important politician, but your mommy still knows a thing or two."

"Yes. Fine. You're very smart. So what do I do?"

"Well you stop not telling me things, for one. Other than that?" She shrugs. "Don't know."

"What? How do you not know? Aren't you supposed to tell me this is a really bad idea. Or I shouldn't try to be friends with him if I still have even the tiniest bit of feelings for him or that I don't know- I should move to an ashram or something?"

"Well, since you moving to an ashram would interfere with my ability to get free babysitting that's definitely off the table. As for the rest of it," she shakes her head, "I don't know, it sounds like you've pretty much already got it covered, and it hasn't done any good. But it also sounds like you're trying to at least be honest with yourself about everything, and you and Mark eventually figured out how to be really great friends. Who am I to say you can't do it again?"

"Yeah." Leslie nods in agreement, "Yeah absolutely." Doesn't bother adding the fact that she's pretty sure she was never even half as in love with the fantasy of Mark as she still is with the reality of Ben. That doesn't really seem like a constructive point at this moment.

Ann smiles, "Just- just talk to me okay? I promise I'll jump in if I get worried. I can be like an early warning system or something."

She gets up so she can start to walk Abigail a little bit because she's getting fussy. Then something seems to occur to her and she looks back over.

"You're going to have to get me his contact info."

Leslie is immediately on guard. "Whhhhy?"

"Two reasons. One, so I can stalk him if you get hurt as a result of this, because all men are dogs, so it _will_be his fault. But, first since he's apparently a friend now, I suppose I have to invite him to your birthday."

Beautiful, _beautiful_Ann.

**00**

Ann and Greg host a party for Leslie's forty-third birthday on a Saturday in the middle of August at what used to be the lot behind Ann's house, but is now the Wamapoke Memorial Park. (_Putting in the joint grant to the State Historical Society with Ken Hotate was one of her last acts before resigning from the Parks department to take the council seat. She knew there was a reason she couldn't get that atrocities map out of her head_). There's a lovely memorial in the center and interpretative exhibits at both entrances, and the rest of the park has been taken up with a community garden in one corner and a modest playground in the other and covered shelter with a corresponding green space that the Wamapoke use four times a year to hold commemorative events and outreach programs (_and possibly an off-books bingo game but that's never been confirmed_).

It's a great evening. Casual and informal. Greg, Ron and Ben take turns minding the grill and people come and go, gorging themselves on bratwursts and hamburgers and waffles courtesy of JJ as a birthday gift. Tamberlee brings cupcakes with actual candied bacon on top and they're decidedly not awful (_sometimes Leslie almost believes there actually isn't another effigy in Ron's future_). And Ann manages not to take offense when nobody seems to be all that interested in her lowfat applesauce cake.

Her mother even stops by for an hour in the middle, and though she spends an inordinate time cooing over Abigail (_who is apparently Marlene's elected surrogate for a grand-daughter, despite all her reassurance about not wanting any_), she still pulls Leslie over to the side before she goes and hugs her longer and harder than in recent memory.

"I'm so proud of you. And I know you're going to win this election," she whispers, and it feels better than any present ever could. She pulls away and claps her on the shoulders. "Just don't screw it up."

Well, at least Leslie knows her mother isn't saying this because of early onset dementia.

"Hey," Ben wanders over and hands her a soda. Follows her gaze out to where her mother is getting in the car. "Good talk?"

"She told me she was proud of me."

"Good. She should be."

"She also told me not to screw it up."

Ben splutters a laugh. "Okay then."

"Yeah, I think retirement's really softening her."

**00**

The party peters-out in a lazy haphazard fashion. People peeling off in couples and then in groups, until finally even Greg and Ann have to concede defeat and go put Abigail to bed, and it's just her and Ben sitting at one of the picnic tables looking up at the stars.

"This was nice. This was a nice birthday."

"It was." Ben agrees.

"Thank you for coming all the way down here by the way."

"Wouldn't have missed it."

"I wish you didn't have to drive back tonight."

"Yeah so do I, but Harrison's already going to be pretty mad at me for leaving him this long. There's every possibility I'm going to lose shoes over this."

"You should have brought him with you. I would have liked to meet him."

"I thought about it, but-" he shakes his head, "it wouldn't have been a good idea. Too many new people. He would have gone crazy trying to meet them all. Next time you're up in Indy though, I'll definitely have to introduce you."

"I'd like that."

"Good." He looks over at her and they both smile. "He'll like you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. But don't let it go to your head. He likes everyone."

She laughs. "Thanks. I feel very special now."

Ben doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he sets down the soda he switched over to an hour and a half ago, and turns a little in his seat to face her more directly, shifting his legs to straddle the bench as he does so. The result is that even as his body moves further away, (_no longer the shoulder-to-shoulder thigh-to-thigh press they've gotten comfortable with over the past few months_), it somehow suddenly feels ten times more intimate. If she moved, if he shifted, if she leaned back or he reached out, if any one of a dozen things happened he'd be embracing her in a decidedly non-platonic way.

Pushing the thought aside with a practiced mental shrug (_really it's almost reflexive these days_) she turns her head to meet his gaze. "What? You're serious all of the sudden."

"I, um, I have something for you."

"You got me another birthday gift? Okay you do know there's no bonus round here right? Besides, the subscription for audiobooks to keep me company on drives around my district? Pretty much a winner already."

"No, I didn't. I mean I did, but it's not um- It wasn't for _this_birthday," he finishes quietly, his voice going low and rough on the word 'this', investing it with so much meaning it seems to loom between them.

It only takes her a split second to catch-up, to do the math. Her thirty-eighth birthday had been two weeks before the Governor's Reception in Indy, before everything between them broke free and fell apart all in one night. And it had been nice. Everyone had taken her out to JJ's for lunch and Ben had somehow convinced them to make her waffle cake iced with whipped cream and had tucked a gift-certificate that would cover her lunches there for next two months in her pad-folio, and it had all been a little more familiar than they'd ever allowed themselves before, and she never thought there might be anything else.

"Oh." She doesn't really know what else to say.

"Yeah. At the time I bought it thinking something was bound to happen soon and I'd be able to give it to you. It was like there was a change in the wind, you know? It never occurred to me -" he breaks off and looks down at his hands braced on the bench in front of him, shakes his head, then looks back up. "I debated about bringing it with me today for a long time. But well-" he shrugs, gives her a small half-hearted smile, "It was always meant for you. It seemed a shame to let another year go by without giving it to you."

This has to be the longest preamble to a gift in the history of the world, and she can't catch her breath and if he goes on like this for one more second she might suffocate.

"You shouldn't feel any pressure to accept if it makes you uncomfortable or-"

"No, no it's okay," she barely gets the words out on just the thinnest gasps of air.

"Oh okay, good," he blinks and lifts his hands a little as if puzzled by the fact they're empty, drops them ineffectually, "It's um, in the car."

Leslie drops her forehead to the table and laughs. It's seriously either that or cry. "I don't believe you. That entire speech-"

"I know," he rubs his hand across his face and gives her wry smile, "I'll go get it."

She turns and gets up from the table because she will very possibly die if she has to just sit here waiting for him to bring it back. "I'll come with you."

They walk in silence over to where Ben's car is parked on the street. He opens the passenger side door and reaches down into the glove compartment for something she can't make out. When he turns back around he's holding a slender rectangular box, carefully wrapped in heavy silver paper. It's approximately the shape you'd expect for a pen or maybe a necklace. But neither of those seems quite right given the circumstances, one too impersonal, the other too intimate.

Hesitantly, she takes it from his outstretched hands, begins to peel away the paper with more care and reverence than she's unwrapped a gift in a long time.

Ben keeps talking even as she pries open the lid on the leather case. "Like I said, you shouldn't feel like you have to keep it. I just-"

"Oh!"

It's not a pen.

It's not a necklace either.

It's a watch. An elegant, classic tank-watch in polished stainless-steel with what might be a mother-of-pearl face. And it's not a Cartier or anything so ridiculously expensive, but it's solid and well-made and far nicer than anything she's ever owned. And certainly not something any co-worker would ever get her. But it well might be something a very close friend would get her now.

"It's beautiful," she breathes.

"I'd wanted to get something you'd use. All the time. But I didn't want it to just be practical. I wanted it to be special. And you used to have that old watch with the frayed black leather band that was starting to look bad with your suits, but you kept wearing it and I thought-"

Leslie reaches out and puts a hand on his upper arm to cut him off. "I love it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ben smiles, his discomfiture giving way to an almost boyish shyness as he adds, "There's an inscription on the back."

He reaches out and picks up the watch, holding the backside up so she can read the engraving by the light of the street lamp. It's not a fancy script, just three simple words in a clean businesslike typeface.

_Go Big._

_Always._

Leslie can't help herself. She starts to cry.

"Hey." Ben pulls her into his arms without thought or pause, and presses his lips briefly to her hair, whispering softly, "Hey it's okay."

It is. It is okay. It's more than okay, and it's not okay at all. Because it's the most perfectly romantic thing anyone's ever done for her, and she's getting it five years too late. Because he kept it all this time and he almost didn't give it to her now. Because he'd always been so willing to follow her lead no matter how crazy and the one time he wanted her to follow his she said no.

Because he asked her to 'Go Big' and, instead, she went home.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." It comes out on a hiccupped sob, and then she's saying it over and over, and she can't seem to stop. "Sorry. Sorry."

Ben just keeps holding her, letting her cry, murmuring as he does so, "I know. Shh. It's okay. I know."

And the fact that he's the one comforting her over this is so incredibly wrong that for a moment it only makes her cry harder.

Finally she calms down enough to step away, swiping at her tears with the heel of her hand. "Sorry," she says again, laughing a little in embarrassment at the repetition, "I, um, I don't know-"

And she's about to say she doesn't know what came over her, but of course she does, they both know exactly what that was all about, and she doesn't want to just brush it off or shrug it aside like it didn't happen or doesn't matter. So she blows out a steadying breath and starts again.

"Thank you for this. Really it's- It's perfect."

Ben looks down at her, and there's something in his face, something she can't quite put her finger on, but for just a split-second he seems somehow lighter, younger, seems more like the man who bought this watch five years ago than he has been at any other time these past few months. "You're welcome."

"Can I-? Can I try it on?"

It takes him a moment to realize he's still holding the watch in his hand. "Oh, yeah. Here."

They do an awkward little dance when she reaches out to take the watch from him, just as he moves to put it on her. But finally they seem to coordinate their movements enough, and Leslie slips it on to her wrist, and fiddles with the clasp with fingers trembling so badly she almost drops it.

Ben puts a hand out. "Do you need me to, um-?"

She shakes her head in surrender and hands the watch back over with a laugh. "Please."

Taking her hand in his, he turns it over so the inside of her wrist is exposed, wraps the watch around and works the butterfly clasp closed with an efficient quiet, _snick._

"There," he murmurs in satisfaction, like a load's been lifted or a goal accomplished.

She turns her arm to look, but the band is a little too big and the face slides around she does. Ben hooks a finger in the space between the band and her skin testing just how far off it is with a rueful smile. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't realize you had such tiny wrists."

Leslie swallows hard, and prays he can't feel the rapid hop-step of her pulse against the back of his finger. "It's okay. I can just get a jeweler to take out a link or two."

"Good."

And this is about the time that something needs to happen. _Anything_. One of them needs to step away or a phone needs to ring or a car alarm go off or a meteor needs to hit a house or something. But nothing does and they both just keep standing there in the pool of light from the street lamp, his finger still hooked in the band of her watch, looking at each other.

Would a herd of elephants be too much to ask right now? Or a hoard of rubber ducks? Really she's kind of desperate here.

"I should probably get going." Ben says quietly, not actually making a move to _go_anywhere.

"Yeah. You have a long drive."

Nope. Not working. They're still just standing here.

She tries again.

"Thanks for making the trip down. It really meant a lot to me that you came."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Yeah, that's not doing it either.

And she is about ten seconds away from doing something really desperate like possibly running away screaming or dancing a jig or backing him up against his car and kissing him senseless or maybe all three in some as yet unspecified order-

A dog barks.

_Oh thank god._

"I think Harrison's calling you."

Everything pops like a soap bubble. Leslie smiles and Ben steps back with a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I should definitely get back before he finds the liquor or it won't be pretty. But this was great, and tell Ann thank you for inviting me."

"I will."

He gives her a brief hug whispering, "Happy Birthday, Leslie," against her temple, and then walks around the car and opens the driver's side door.

She can feel everything settling back into place. Still there's something just a little different, nothing drastic or eye-catching, just a small frame-shift to the right or the left. But it's definitely there.

"Hey, do me a favor."

"Yeah?"

"Call me when you get in tonight? Just so I know you got back okay."

It's the first time she's ever asked that, and she knows it's kind of a strange request to make of a forty-year old man who's lived most of his life alone and on the road, but Ben just smiles at her over the roof his car like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Sure."

**00**

The rest of August and all of September comes and goes in an absolute blur. Almost every waking minute of her life is occupied by the campaign in some form or fashion, and she can feel election-day starting to bear down on her like a freight-train.

They don't have enough money for real offices and the entire first floor of her home has been taken over by posters and empty pizza-boxes and t-shirted volunteers on cell-phones coming and going at nearly all hours. Madison runs them all with an almost drill-sergeant like efficiency from her kitchen table, and sometimes Leslie forgets she doesn't actually live here.

There are mornings when she spends ten extra minutes in the shower just because she knows it's only time alone she's going to get all day.

Everything else in her life has fallen victim to her increasingly busy schedule. She hasn't spent any time with Abigail in four weeks and the last time she really spoke to Ann it was for thirty minutes on her front porch and then only because her friend showed up on her door-step at six a.m. coffee in hand.

Even Ben takes the hint after she answered her phone with a breathless 'Can I call you back' for the third time in a row, and proceeds to convert their interactions to text-messages. Random little notes he sends her throughout the week, ranging from _"Breathe"_ to _"Eat something"_ to _"Harrison made a new friend today. I don't know how to tell him it's a mirror."_Little life-lines, tethering her to reality, reminding her that no matter what happens she already has it pretty good.

Sometimes she thinks it's the only thing keeping her sane.

Which is why when Diane calls in September and instructs her to get out her calendar and find at least one free evening sometime between now and the end of October she can carve out to come up for Ben's birthday, Leslie does as she's told. Marks off the first Sunday in October in big red block letters (_it's actually a week and a half after Ben's actual birthday, but Diane reassures her that won't matter_) and threatens Madison with pain of death if she schedules something for her after three pm that day.

**00**

Madison for once actually takes her instructions to heart and sure enough the only thing on her calendar is a service and coffee at one the local churches that morning, so she's able to get to the address Diane gave her earlier than scheduled.

It's a modest townhouse of fairly recent construction, situated in a neighborhood on the northwest side of the city that looks like it's going through the kind of personality shift that happens every so often as people decide they don't want to commute quite so far or live in a house quite so big. And she's just thinking how it doesn't really fit what she pictured for Diane, when she's hears a dog barking and muffled "Coming."

And that is definitely not Diane's voice.

Ben opens the door, reaching down to hold a grey mutt by the collar, with a quiet, "Harrison stay," that's completely ignored, and looks up at her with broad pleased smile, "Hey you're early."

"Yeah, I made good time. Sorry if I-"

"No, no it's great." He pushes the door open a little wider, "Come on in, you can help."

Hesitantly she steps inside, "I'm sorry. I'm a little- When Diane said to come up for a dinner party, for some reason I thought it was at her house. I didn't realize this was your address."

"Oh, yeah, she probably should have made that clear." Ben kneels down to scratch behind one of Harrison's ears trying to calm him down. "Nope this is ours, isn't buddy?"

Harrison's response is to bark and make another excited lunge towards Leslie.

"Okay, okay. Sorry apparently introductions are required. Harrison this is Leslie. Leslie. Harrison."

Crouching carefully down on the floor of the entryway (_and she's really beginning to rethink her choice to wear a dress_), Leslie holds her hand out giving him a second to get used to her. "It's nice to meet you Harrison. I've heard a lot about you."

Harrison licks her palm in greeting and moves forward ducking his head to be petted. Ben lets him go, keeping a steadying hand on his collar, and smiles, "It's very possible your name's come up once or twice, too."

Leslie looks down at the dog. "Is that true?"

Harrison barks.

They spend a few minutes more in the foyer. She sits down on the hardwood floor and tucks her legs to the side under her skirt so Harrison can put his head on her lap as she pets him. It's honestly the most calming thing she's done ages and Harrison seems to be in no hurry to do anything else any time soon.

Finally Ben stands, motioning to her not to get up, when she moves to join him. "I think you've got a conquest."

"He makes me wish I had the time to have a dog of my own."

"Swing by whenever you're up here. From the looks of it I don't think he'll have any objection to being shared."

She drops her eyes to look down at the placid, contented animal on her lap. "Is that okay with you? Will you be mine, too, sometimes?"

Ben clears his throat. "Let me, um get your coat for you. You must be warm."

"Oh, thanks." Trying not to move from her position too much, she shrugs out of her trench. It's a little awkward doing seated, and Ben has to come to her rescue. Finally she gets untangled and he takes the coat.

He doesn't immediately go anywhere, just stands there looking down at her in surprise. Leslie ducks her head self-consciously to fiddle with the hem of her navy blue wrap dress. It's not that dressed-up, she's worn it to the office on more than one occasion, but it's a far cry from the jeans and un-tucked button-down Ben's wearing right now.

"There's every possibility I got dress-code for this evening wrong too. It's been kind of a crazy few weeks. Sorry."

"No, don't apologize. You look-" he stops, smiles. "I'll call Paul and Diane. We'll dress to match."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

He shakes his head, "It's my birthday. If I don't get to be arbitrary now, when do I?"

**00**

The dinner "party" Diane mentioned, turns out to be just the four of them with Ben cooking. And she'd ask why on earth he would agree to cook for his own birthday, except that's immediately apparent from the moment she joins him in the kitchen. He's cooking because he _loves_it. Moves around the well-equipped space with a relaxed, easy surety that's speaks of real joy.

There's something peaceful and soothing about watching him work, giving such focus to something so simple and everyday. Over the past few weeks, food has pretty much been reduced to fuel in her world, to be grabbed and consumed in between meetings and events without much thought or enjoyment. But food hasn't been the event itself in ages. Now sitting here with a glass wine, the smell of garlic and rosemary taking over the kitchen, she finds herself letting it be. Letting everything else, all the noise and stress and commotion of the last few weeks just slip away, like she's left it outside that door, back in Pawnee.

She looks on as Ben trims a large beef tenderloin with practiced skill. "Where'd you learn to cook?"

He doesn't look up. "Here and there. I actually picked up a lot from tv over the years if you believe it."

"I'm trying to picture you watching cooking shows."

"They can make pretty good background noise in a hotel room if I'm working late and there's not a baseball game on." He finishes trimming and seasoning meat and comes over to the sink to wash his hands.

"So that's it? You watched a lot of cooking shows and one day you got really hungry?"

He laughs. "No. No it probably started with my mom. After the um," he waves his hand vaguely, "after Ice Town and everything, well I had a lot of free time on my hands and my dad and I really- I mean he tried but-" he breaks off and reaches over for the towel to dry his hands. Stays silent until he finishes and then looks back up at her. "Anyway, I would sit in the kitchen with my mom while she cooked. You pick up more than you realize. No matter what was happening, she always insisted we sit down for dinner together. Even after-" he shakes his head, forces a small laugh "She could be so stubborn that way. But yeah, um-" he shrugs, "I guess some of it stuck."

It's not a big thing, not an earth-shattering secret or a life-changing revelation. And yet, it kind of is. It's intimate and personal. And he offers it to her so freely, without any real prompting or coaxing on her part. Like she has a right to know, simply by virtue of interest, of caring, she has a right to this piece of him.

She wants to give him something back in return. "My dad took me to JJ's for waffles every Saturday morning until, you know, until he-"

Ben stops her from having to complete the sentence with a touch on her wrist, and for a moment they just look at each other. Then he gives her hand a little tug, urging her up. "Come on wash your hands. I'm putting you to work."

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea. I can't cook."

He moves over to pull out a clean cutting board, grabs a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. "Not asking you to cook. Asking you to chop. Come on you can single-handedly organize two-hundred volunteers, but you can't chop a shallot?"

"I don't even know what a shallot is."

"It's like an onion but smaller and stronger. Look, cooking is about forty percent organization, forty percent patience, and the rest is just a matter of finding the right ingredients and knowing a few techniques. Certainly nothing Leslie Knope can't do." He tilts his head to the chopping board. "Come over here. I'll teach you."

"Okay, but if we spend your birthday dinner in the emergency room, don't say I didn't warn you."

**00**

They don't spend his birthday in the emergency room.

Ben turns out to be a pretty good teacher, patient and thorough, with a nice sense of humor about the whole thing. When she goes to retrieve the salad greens from the refrigerator at his instruction and winds up knocking one of the ramekins full of something that she's pretty sure is dessert out onto the tile floor, spilling its contents and chipping the ramekin in the process, he just looks down at for a second, and then back up at her and says without missing a beat, "Okay that one's yours."

It's about that time that she starts to relax and enjoy herself.

Paul and Diane arrive with their customary cacophony of affectionate argument and far too much wine for four people. And sure enough, they are as promised 'dressed to match'. Though apparently getting Paul into anything more formal than jeans and a polo shirt is according to Diane "a miracle for the ages."

"Ben shouldn't have had you go through the trouble."

"No, no don't apologize. I'd almost forgotten that I'd married such a handsome man. Do you do anniversaries?"

"Like you want me to be wearing anything on our anniversary."

Ben makes a face and a gagging noise, "Ugh, please not before we eat or while we're eating or _ever_really." Points over to one of the bottles lined up on the counter with his knife, "But definitely not before you open that wine."

Paul plays sommelier all night, dispensing the wine with a quick, generous hand, barely letting anyone's glass get less than a quarter full throughout the entire meal. Which since it's a lazy three hour affair with time between courses to talk and laugh and debate and reminisce, means that by the time dessert's over and she and Ben have made their way out to small deck out back, Leslie is pretty-well buzzed.

Ben clips Harrison's collar to an extra long leash fixed to one of the posts and taps him on the head. "Go crazy boy."

Harrison's version of going crazy is to chase a squirrel into the common green space until his leash stops him and then turn around and chase another one. He does this about four times before finally figuring out his limited range of mobility, at which point he fixates on a single squirrel and begins to watch it as if guarding his territory.

Ben sits down on the steps with a sigh. "Every time. Never fails." Leslie moves to sit beside him, overbalances a little, and has to put a palm on his shoulder to steady herself. Automatically, his hand flies up to her waist to guide her down, "Careful."

"Thanks. I think I had more wine than I realized."

"I think we all did."

He looks back over his shoulder to where Diane and Paul are busy cleaning up (_this and paying for the ingredients and what was definitely very good wine is apparently their birthday present_). "Paul does not like to drink alone, and he really likes to drink."

For some reason Leslie finds this absolutely hilarious, drops her head to his shoulder giggling hysterically.

Yes, she has definitely had too much.

"I don't, um, I don't think I'm safe to drive."

Ben chuckles quietly under his breath and leans back a little, bracing himself on his hands. Makes no move to dislodge her from his shoulder. "No, I don't think you are, at least not for several more hours."

She'd been doing pretty well up until this point, but at the thought of having to make the two hour drive back to Pawnee at one in the morning, everything inside her just hurts. Leslie groans in objection. "Tired."

"Stay here tonight."

He says it so easily and casually—likes it's no big deal, like why wouldn't she—that it takes her a moment to really process the suggestion. Because sleeping under the same roof as Ben and 'no big deal' are still pretty much mutually exclusive concepts in her head.

But she's _so_tired.

Blearily, she slits her eyes open to look up at him. "Really?"

"Well, you're crazy if you think I'm about to let you get back on the road tonight."

"No," she sits up a little, shakes her head "No, it's you birthday. I'm not supposed to be a hassle on your birthday."

And she reaches to pull herself up to standing, but her muscles aren't really obeying her commands and Ben foils her efforts with nothing more than two lazy fingers hooked into the belt on her wrap dress. "That's right it's my birthday so you have to do what I say. Look if it makes you feel better, I promise not to put mints on your pillow."

She leans away from him, slouching against the post on her other side and concedes defeat, "Do you have a comfortable couch?"

"Even better I have a comfortable daybed in the spare room for exactly this purpose."

"You have a lot of drunk women sleep over in your spare room?"

He laughs, but doesn't take the bait. "Honestly I think your problem is more exhaustion than alcohol. Listening to you talk at dinner about what's going in your house? It's horrifying. I'm surprised you haven't cracked sooner. Stay here tonight. Take a long shower or a bath, and get a full night's sleep. Get up tomorrow morning and have a cup of coffee in peace. I'm usually out the door by seven at the latest. I can make sure you're on the road before then. You'll be back in Pawnee and ready to conquer the world by nine, nine-thirty tops."

Right now Leslie doesn't think he could make her a more appealing offer if he said he wanted to strip her naked and ravish her.

Wait-

No, yeah, it's a toss-up right now.

"I'll make you breakfast."

Okay, no, this wins.

He really is a very good cook.

**00**

Despite his disclaimer about mints on her pillow, Ben does just about everything but. Sets her up with clean sheets and fresh towels; a set of a spare flannel pajama pants and a soft thread-bare t-shirt to sleep in.

The last he sets on the bathroom counter with a quiet, "Knock on my door if you need anything," and turns to go.

Leslie reaches out and skims her fingers over the faded "I met 'il Sebast" that's just visible above the fold on the t-shirt. "Ben-"

He pauses in the doorway looks back. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for letting me stay in your home."

For some reason it comes out oddly formal and he tilts his head a little at the peculiarity of the phrasing. "You're welcome."

"It's a really nice home. You have a really nice home," she says it likes it's the most important thing in world and she can feel herself trying to say something else, but her brain's so much caramel and she can't figure out what exactly, so here she is trying to make do with inadequate substitutes.

Ben obviously isn't doing any better with the translation than she is, just shakes his head in bemusement. "Um, thank you."

She tries again, "You have this nice home and a great job. And Paul and Diane. Who are so nice. And Harrison. Harrison's a _really_nice dog."

"Yes they're all very nice. Leslie-"

"So you're happy right? You have this really nice life, that you wouldn't- And you're happy, aren't you?"

Oh, there it is.

Ben puts his hand on the door frame and rests his head against it, shaking it slowly back and forth. "Of all the-" Sighs. "Yes. Yes, I'm happy."

She bites her lip and looks back down at where her hand has fisted in the fabric of the t-shirt, lets it go. "Good. I'm glad."

"And you? Are you happy?"

Leslie thinks about morning coffee with Ann and holding her god-daughter, thinks about late-night strategy sessions with Madison and town-meetings with her constituents, thinks about all those students of Diane's looking at her the way she used to look at her mother, thinks about the watch on her wrist and the man who gave it to her standing less than three feet away. Her lips curve up in a small, wistful smile, "Maybe more than I've ever been."

Ben smiles back, "Good. I'm glad."

And she can tell from his eyes that he genuinely means it.

He reaches for the door.

"You know you're part of that, right? That having you- in my life- That I wouldn't be as happy if you weren't. You know that, right? You should know that."

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, just looks at her. Then taking two steps forward, he reaches out and brushes a stray curl out of her eyes. Tucks it behind her ear, and presses a soft deliberate kiss against her forehead.

Steps away.

"Good night Leslie Knope."

Her eyes flutter open just in time to see the bathroom door close.

"Good night Ben Wyatt."

**00**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Apparently a few people were worried the previous part was the last one. Have no fear, there are three more chapters after this and I promise when it's over you'll know it.

* * *

><p>Leslie wakes the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of Harrison sitting beside the bed staring at her. It's still dark out and for a moment she just lies there, taking in the quiet, the peace, the fact she's going to go downstairs this morning and not be immediately faced with three whiteboards full of schedules and to-do lists. It's been so long since she's let herself take a vacation, wake up anywhere that wouldn't immediately involve demands on her or require her to hit the ground running with a bullet-point plan of action in her head, that for a second she almost doesn't know what to do with herself.<p>

The sound of Ben moving around downstairs draws her attention. And it's as though her mind just needs the project because immediately every thought is about him. About how good last night felt. About his lips on her forehead and his hand at her waist. About his really nice house and his really nice life and how she fits. About how she doesn't.

Idly her hand goes to the t-shirt, tracing the faded lettering, thinking about how he's worn and washed it so often it's faded and threadbare, trying not to read too much into what that might mean. It smells like him. Everything smells like him. _She_smells like him. His laundry detergent on the sheets, his soap on her skin, his shampoo in her hair. It feels like he's enveloped her, like he's holding her.

Feels like being cared for.

It's been a long time since she can remember letting anyone take care of her quite like this. It's been a long time since anyone's offered.

Harrison comes over to lick her hand, and she scratches lazily behind one of his ears, whispering, "Hey boy. In case you didn't know, you've got the best owner. Be good to him, okay?"

The dog remains neutral on the subject, just tilts his head so she can scratch the other ear. Leslie complies.

"You're spoiling him." The sound of Ben's voice draws her attention, and she looks up to find him standing in the doorway, mug in hand, watching her. The light from the hallway plays over his face casting odd shadows so she can't so much read his expression as feel it. It feels good, feels warm and happy and content.

"Hey."

"Good morning." He smiles. "I was coming to make sure you were up. But I see Harrison already took care of it for me. Sorry 'bout that."

"No, no it's okay." She sits up, swinging her legs to the floor, and leans over to scrub at Harrison's neck with both hands, laughing as his tail starts thumping repeatedly on the floor. "He's pretty nice to wake up to."

Harrison moves closer, nuzzling her legs in entreaty to keep her petting him, and Ben shakes his head, "Yeah, it's official. I'm never getting you back, am I buddy?" Harrison ignores him. He chuckles, "See? Flirt."

"Awww." Leslie looks over and gives him a teasing smile, "You're just jealous I'm getting all the attention."

"Maybe I am," he concedes, but something about the way he says it makes her feel like it might not be Harrison's attention he covets, and she's suddenly extremely grateful for the fact the room is still dark.

Refocusing on the animal currently in her thrall, she talks to him instead, "You're not really so easy, are you? No, I bet you know what a good thing you've got going."

Ben clears his throat and comes over to hand her the mug. "So I, um, brought up some coffee. No sprinkles, but I did have some of the whipped cream I made last night left over, so there's that."

She takes it with a laugh. "Thank you."

Kneeling down to take over petting duties, Ben says, "Okay, we're going to leave you alone now, so you can get dressed in peace. But first breakfast orders."

"Oh really you don't need to-"

"No that was the deal. You stay. I cook. Besides it's been awhile since I've had someone to make breakfast for, I'm kind of looking forward to it."

That piece of information should not make her as happy as it does. She takes a sip of coffee to hide it. "All right if I can't talk you out of it, what are my choices?"

"Well I don't have a waffle-maker, so that's out, but I can make a pretty mean French toast, plus I've got some leftover pancetta I could scramble up in some eggs. How does that sound?"

"Extravagant and fattening," she laughs.

"I'm taking that as a yes."

**00**

There's a lazy domesticity to breakfast that Leslie finds simultaneously unfamiliar and all too appealing. Ben's set out his iPad with both the Indy paper and the Pawnee Journal already cued up, and she sits at the breakfast bar with a fresh cup of coffee watching him cook, reading excerpts from interesting articles out loud and debating with him about a new bill coming across the House floor next week.

And it wouldn't even matter if the French toast was inedible. It's still the best breakfast she's had in recent memory.

(_His French toast is amazing, by the way_).

It's not something she's ever thought of her life as particularly lacking. Maybe because it's something she's never really had it before (_her mother isn't exactly one for lazy anything_). But she finds herself wishing she could get used to it.

Or maybe it's just that she wants to get used to him.

**00**

They let the time get away from them so despite Ben's promises it's almost seven-forty-five before she's leaving, and he has to call in to work to move a staff meeting (_sometimes there are privileges to being the boss_). He and Harrison see her to the door, and she's just going through her mental checklist to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything when he speaks up:

"Hey, so, um, I get election-day off. Government office and everything. And I was thinking I could drive down Monday night and be there on Tuesday to lend a hand, provide moral-support? You know, if you, um- if you want. I mean I know how there's always a- a last-minute push and it can be kind of all hands on deck."

Usually Leslie would have cut him off by now, but he's doing that thing where he's trying so hard to be offhand, he's practically holding up a flashing sign that says "This matters." And she likes mattering too much to cut it short.

"Anyway it's just an idea. Not a big deal."

And maybe she shouldn't be so quick to jump at the offer, so eager to integrate him into such an important moment in her life. Maybe she's ignoring a thousand warning signs and falling into old patterns and maybe Ann will tell her tomorrow what a terrible idea this is.

And maybe right now she doesn't care.

"No, it's- it's a wonderful idea. I'd love for you to be there." Then something occurs to her and she asks, "It won't be a problem though? Helping out with my campaign, given your position. I don't want to be the cause of any trouble."

Ben shakes his head, gives her a small embarrassed smile. "I actually, um, declared your campaign on my annual conflict of interest statement back in September. Haven't heard a word about it." He shrugs. "Maybe if you were running for mayor it would be a problem, but really there's not enough direct influence between my office and the State-Assembly to raise any eyebrows."

"Oh," she blinks and her heart does a little somersault at the revelation that she was important enough for him make official declarations about all the way back in September. That somewhere in a file in the Statehouse there is a signed piece of paper verifying under penalty of perjury that one Leslie Knope is a potential conflict of interest for one Benjamin Wyatt. And she knows she's smiling like an idiot, like he's given her some kind of spectacular gift, but she can't help it and she doesn't want to try.

"Okay good. That's good. Great even. It'll be great to have you there. Fair warning though?"

"Hmm?"

"I can't promise you won't have to excavate the bed in the guestroom. Or that there will be clean sheets, or that the house will ever be quiet enough to use them."

Ben laughs, "I'll manage."

"Okay, well I did my best to dissuade you." And they both know she didn't try very hard.

"It would take a lot more than that to keep me from being there for you."

The _'this time'_is unspoken, but she hears it all the same.

"Yeah, so I should- I should get going."

Ben pulls her into a quick hug. "Call me when you get in?"

"Of course."

And the entire exchange goes so fast, feels so natural, so familiar and comfortable, like a well-worn routine they've been doing for ages, that Leslie's almost halfway out of the neighborhood before she realizes Ben kissed her on the cheek.

She's another block before she realizes she kissed him first.

It's a miracle she makes it home in one piece.

**00**

Election day is an odd combination of extreme anxiousness and utter boredom punctuated by momentary crisis. There aren't any events to go to, no speeches to give or questions to answer. Madison still has most of the volunteers out around the district—replacing signs that have fallen; standing the mandated distance from voting sites with handbill summaries of Leslie's resume and platform; calling in with the occasional updates from the party's pollsters when they can get two minutes of their attention. But Leslie herself is somewhat at loose ends.

There's a momentary flurry of activity around one when she gets word that one of the democratic observers has concerns about voters being turned away over at the Whitcomb Avenue polling place. But as a candidate there's not a lot she's allowed to do directly and it turns out to be more smoke than fire. So by two-thirty everything's packaged back up neat and orderly and clicking along just fine without her.

For a moment she envies Madison her activity. Madison who has taken over the kitchen table with three cell phones, two laptops and enough color-coded dry erase markers to remind Leslie that she's met a kindred spirit.

Granted a kindred spirit with violently bottle-red hair, who wears cats-eye glasses and motorcycle jackets over floral-print dresses, and has a dead-pan stare that rival's April, but a kindred spirit all the same.

The problem with that is Madison has everything under control. Makes it clear early in the morning that this is her circus right now and Leslie shouldn't do much more than take a breath and start to get mentally prepared for the onslaught that will come if they win.

On the list of Leslie's many talents 'taking a breath' falls about three slots below 'chopping a shallot'.

Still she knows better than to interfere. It's a hard-won lesson of these past two years. Learning that sometimes she has to trust someone else to be as passionate and invested and competent as she is. The first few months of their partnership, Leslie had tried to oversee every detail, dictate every step. She would call Madison with checklists, triple check logistics, and generally try to do both their jobs, until the other woman had come in one morning and given her a terse ultimatum. (_"Either trust me to do the job you hired me for or I quit"_).

Madison's still here.

So Leslie is currently sitting out of sight at the top of the staircase pretending like she's not listening to every single phone call coming in, waiting to find out if she'll have something to do tomorrow.

It feels like the hardest thing she's ever done.

Ben comes to sit down on the two steps below her. And even though he's been dressed the same way since he got in last night and Madison immediately put him to work stapling extra-signs, the sight of him in a red campaign-staff t-shirt over a cream-colored thermal still makes her do a double-take.

He's been orbiting her all day. Not oppressive or distracting or clingy, but simply there, within easy reach if she needs him at all times. And she doesn't know whether that was Madison's idea or his or whether the two have somehow formed an unholy alliance in the eighteen hours they've been acquainted. But she realizes now that this is his assignment. That as much as others have been put on poster-duty or last-minute phone-banking, Ben's official Madison-sanctioned task is Leslie-watch.

Sure enough after a few minutes of silence he takes a temperature check. "How you feeling?"

Leslie should probably be a lot angrier with her campaign-manager for giving her a babysitter. Except her babysitter has a really nice smile.

"At the moment? Useless."

He nods. "I was afraid of that. The Leslie Knope I remember was never all that good at delegating."

She ducks her head in rueful acknowledgement. "I've gotten a little better these past few years. I had to when I got elected to the City council. It turns out you can't vote on a measure and oversee all the details of its implementation by yourself."

That makes him smile. "How many times did you try it?"

"Ten or twelve the first six months."

"I bet Chris loved that."

"He went running a lot."

They both laugh a little at the visual. Then Ben leans back against the wall, and gives her a knowing look. "And how many times have you tried it in the last six months?"

"Once or twice. But I've been busy."

"Good to know some things haven't changed."

And she knows he means it as a compliment, knows he only ever saw the best in her, and ninety percent of her takes it the way he intended. But there's another part the ten-percent that came after, the quieter, more careful part of her. The part that takes one extra look before she leaps, that breaks down an idea before assuming its success. The part that's learned to occasionally trust someone else's diligence, and to value little things like coffee with Ann and babysitting her goddaughter and lazy Monday morning breakfasts. The part that grew like new skin over the wounds he left. And on that part the words scrape and abrade and sting just a little.

"Hey." Ben reaches out and touches her wrist, thumb and forefinger wrapping around the strip of skin between the band of his watch and the swell of her palm. "Hey, did I say something wrong?"

"No, I just- I _have_changed you know. It's been five years, and a lot's happened and I've changed. I'd like to think it's for the better, but either way-"

And the part she thinks but doesn't add is she's not entirely oblivious to the fact that they've grown just a little less careful and a little more comfortable, that Ben hasn't mentioned having a date in over two months, and sometimes his voice on the phone is laced with something that's not quite love or even desire, but isn't just friendship either. And maybe neither one of them are ready to make a decision about what that means, maybe he's not even at the point of acknowledging there's a decision to be made, and it's still so insubstantial and ephemeral that maybe it will all evaporate tomorrow leaving them with nothing more than the friendship that's become so important to her.

But no matter what happens Leslie wants to know that when he's looking at her, he's really seeing her, _all_of her, not just the part he left in a parking lot five years ago.

Ben doesn't say anything for minute just sits there, his thumb stroking along edge of the watch-band at the inside of her wrist, and she can see him turning her words over in his head, considering them. Then, "When you told me you were running for city council five years ago, I worried. Even though I knew you were going to win, knew no one could possibly meet you and doubt your passion and commitment to making Pawnee amazing, there was a part- just a tiny part, the Ice Town part I guess you could call it, that worried what would happen if you didn't."

She can feel him trying to say something, but she can't connect the dots, and her mind won't seem to get past the idea that even after everything he still thought about her like that. "You worried about me? Why?"

"Aside from the obvious?" he flicks her a wry smile and looks back down, "I was worried about how much you wanted it."

"There's something wrong with that?"

"No. No, there's nothing wrong with it. You wouldn't be you, wouldn't be Leslie Knope if you didn't go after things with everything you had. I always, um- I always loved that about you."

Leslie blushes a little, both at the compliment and the word choice, but it doesn't stop her from pressing. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"Yeah this isn't coming out right." Ben lets out a long breath, "What I'm trying to say and really, _really_screwing up, is this: I know you've changed. I see that. The Leslie I knew would never have been able to let Madison run things like this. You still charge at everything full tilt, but when we argue I can tell you see more of the field now. Five years ago I worried that if you lost, if you failed at something you wanted that badly you wouldn't handle it well because you wouldn't be able to see everything else you had. But you called me two weeks ago to tell me Abigail was walking and you didn't mention the campaign once and I just- I'm not worried this time. This time you're going to be fine no matter what."

"Yeah?"

He brings his thumb around to circle her wrist again, and then shifts to squeeze her hand with a smile. "Yeah."

"Would you think less of me if I told you I really want to go down there and make sure she's sent someone out to give the volunteers water and food?"

Ben laughs. "I'd think you held out about half an hour longer than I expected."

**00**

Her inquiry about provisions for the volunteers (_or possibly her ten follow-up questions about the type of provisions and planned distribution scheme and adequate offerings of vegetarian options and whether Madison remembered the triple-decker club for Ron wasn't allowed to have anything on it that grew in the ground_) gets her exiled to the front porch, and Ben with her for failing to adequately perform his duties.

It's chilly out, a teasing first taste of what could be an early and brutal winter. Not bitter yet, but beyond the point where it's pleasant to simply sit outside. Still, neither one of them seems particularly anxious to go put themselves back into Madison's line of fire, so they wind up taking a walk instead.

They don't go very far. Keep to a five block radius, circumnavigating the house in a wide arcing circle that still keeps them close enough to get back quickly if her cell rings or their hands start to turn blue.

For a little while she tries to talk about other things, about all those other details in her life that normally would be interesting and important, tries to be that balanced person Ben was complimenting her on. But her balance comes in the form of a pendulum not a gyroscope, and right now she can only think about one thing.

He picks up on it, and tosses out in a too casual non-sequitor, "So how do you think things are going to shake out on Prop. 62?"

It's a soft-ball, a life-line, a tacit, gentle reassurance that says 'I know where your head is.' Says 'it's okay.'

And just like that they're off and running.

**00**

By the time they get back to the house it's just after five and the sun is beginning to set. Some of the volunteers are starting to return and friends and supporters have begun to show up, to settle-in for the waiting game of the next few hours.

Every tv in her house is on and tuned to the election coverage. Even the dining-room she usually uses as an office has a laptop set up to stream from one of the news sites so there's pretty much nowhere in the downstairs to get away from the coverage.

The moment they walk through the door there's a surge of noise that's almost a cheer, but not quite. People scrambling to say hello, ask how she's feeling, give her updates.

It's a presidential election year, so the tv coverage is big and continuous, and everyone's invested, and there's a buzz to the house, a coil-spring excitement that isn't entirely about her at all. She's simply the lodestone, the conduit, the opportunity to truly be a part of this great American tradition in a way that, for so many, actually voting never seems to accomplish.

Leslie gets separated from Ben almost immediately, swept up in the wave of people who have given her their support in one fashion or another, and she owes her attention at the very least. And he lets her go, lets her step into the spotlight and fades into the background. But somehow whenever she looks up, he's never very far away—sitting on the floor with Greg and Abigail in the corner of the dining room where Ann's set out toys and a blanket; helping Tom crack open beers in the kitchen for the volunteers as they return; doing his part to run the tally board that Madison's set up to cover all the called races as they come in.

He writes up the notice that Prop. 62 passed (_she said it would, he was less sure_), and looks around, eyes scanning the crowd, seeking her out. When he finally finds her and realizes she's been watching him, his mouth curves in a quiet smile that makes it feel like they're sharing a secret rather than something on every news website covering Indiana.

The night spirals on, people losing steam as some of the bigger races get called even as the underlying tension surrounding her own race becomes progressively tighter and more unbearable. She and Madison go back and forth reassuring each other, having the same conversation five times in less than an hour—the one where they knew this was how it would play out, knew if she won it wouldn't be by a landslide. The presidential election means there are a lot of voters who have no real opinion on the state races, who will wind up voting straight down the party lines and this year her district is so evenly split it's almost purple.

But they're quickly passing the point where logic is holding much sway.

Ten o'clock comes around, and Abigail has started screaming her head off. Greg offers to take her home so his wife can stay, but Ann's combined super-powered nurse and mom instincts have kicked in, and she doesn't think her daughter's fussiness is entirely due to the fact it's past her bed-time. So she gathers up her crying baby and apologizes way more than necessary and makes Leslie promise three times to call the moment she hears anything.

Leslie's beginning to feel like that moment might never come.

And she doesn't care how much she's changed, how balanced she's become, she _wants_ this. Wants it. Wants it. Wants it. It's small and quiet and unflashy, and certainly a loss wouldn't destroy her politically. But that doesn't matter. What matters is she wants to help Granville get development subsidies to renew their historic downtown square; wants to make sure Pawnee's school district gets their state-funding share reevaluated; even wants to help Eagleton block a highway that would go right through the estate of a founding family, because it's a beautiful piece of land with real historic value and one-hundred-year-old trees. She wants to represent these people, _her_people, with everything in her. And dammit it's going to hurt so much if she can't.

"Hey." As if some sixth-sense has told him that the anticipation has finally taken it's toll and she's about to spiral off the deep-end, Ben's suddenly there, hand resting just between her shoulder blades, anchoring her. "Hey, come upstairs with me for a minute."

He ushers her quietly through the crowd, and there's a momentary pause at the bottom of the steps, when they both silently check in with Madison so she knows where Leslie's gone. And then he's leading her up the stairs and over to stand in the doorway of the guest-room, which is right now serving the dual role of storage closet and temporary lodging for one wayward Commissioner of Local Government Finance.

"You want to talk about it?" he offers as soon as he's sure they're alone.

She doesn't, and she does. She wants to pretend everything's fine and this is all perfectly expected and normal and it doesn't matter that almost every other state race except for two districts up north and a truly ugly attorney-general election has been called. She wants to be confident, wants to be certain. Wants to pretend it doesn't matter as much as it does. But when she opens her mouth only one thing comes out.

"I don't want to lose."

Ben slips his hand into hers, intertwines their fingers, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I know."

They don't say anything else. Don't go back downstairs. Instead they just stand there in the muffled quiet, leaning against the guest-room door. Holding hands and waiting.

Finally after what feels like an eternity, but might only have been ten minutes, her cell-phone rings.

The number on her display reveals an Indianapolis area-code with a government prefix.

Ben lets her hand go as she fumbles for her phone, and she steps a little further into guest-room, instinctively seeking the privacy, answering with a steady, "This is Leslie Knope," that sounds so calm and professional it can't possibly be her voice right now.

It's a strange, almost out-of-body experience, getting the results. She can hear what they're saying, can hear herself make all the appropriate responses, "Thank you," and "I understand" and "I will" but none of it feels like it's really her, like it's actually happening.

And then she hangs up and turns and sees him standing there, his face a mess of concern and fear and so much barely checked hope. All for her. All for her dreams.

And she feels everything.

It washes over her in a rush and unchecked torrent of rapturous victory and joyous exultation. And she can tell the second Ben reads the answer to his unasked question on her face, because he's moving and she's launching herself at him, and they're both laughing.

He half hugs, half twirls her in a graceless, stumbling pirouette. A dizzy, giddy movement that leaves them both a little off-balance so she has to hold on as she comes down lest she fall. And they're still laughing, still speaking over each other in incoherent half-formed thoughts that they somehow perfectly understand—

"I never-"

"I couldn't-"

"You always-"

"Without you-"

"You would-" He says it like truth. Like fact. Nods and laughs and repeats it again. "You would-"

And then suddenly she's kissing him. Palms on either side of his face, closed mouth on closed mouth. Just an impulsive, momentary expression of joy too great to be contained in words. Nothing more.

Except his hands fly up to her waist and do a stuttering hop-step along her the line of hips in surprise, like they can't quite decide what to do, only to finally make themselves at home against the hard edges of her hip-bones just at the exact moment she goes to pull away.

It's as if the feel of her body fitted once again into his hands short-circuits every good intention, erases every fabricated platonic justification. Because her pulling away turns into nothing more than a pause, a reset.

And then she's _kissing_him.

And more importantly, after a quick surprised inhalation, Ben is decidedly and without question kissing her back.

She has maybe, once or twice (_or a hundred times_), imagined what it might be like to kiss him again. Conjured scenarios ranging from wine-spurred makeout sessions on his couch that might prove to be a mistake, to steady certain kisses after a careful thorough dissection of where their relationship was headed.

Somehow elated and adrenaline fueled in the middle her guest bedroom with twenty volunteers down-stairs and a box of extra pamphlets biting into her calf, didn't make cut.

It _so_should have.

Vaguely she's aware of a sound in the background, but Ben's just shifted to take control of the kiss, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head, teeth nipping at her bottom-lip in a way he shouldn't remember she likes so much after only two kisses and one night five years ago. And the quiet undefined noise really doesn't seem that important.

"So, I'm guessing we won."

The sound of Madison's desert-dry voice cuts through the haze engulfing them like a hacksaw, and they break apart like teenagers caught by their parents, a bumbling adolescent jumble of embarrassment and excuses.

"Oh, I was just- I mean yes we won and I was so happy-"

Ben latches on to Leslie's feeble first attempt like a life-line, "Right. Exactly. Because she won. We were both- You know- Happy."

But there's a flicker of something in his face, that makes her take a half-step forward, rush to clarify, "Not that it didn't, you know- I mean it wasn't just-"

"Oh," he blinks, "Yeah, of course. I didn't- I mean, I don't-"

Madison rolls her eyes. "As much as I'd love to watch the two of you stand here and rediscover speech, I kind of need her downstairs. There are people to tell and volunteers to thank."

Dammit.

Leslie looks over at him. "She's right. I have to go down."

She says it softly trying to put an apology in her words, because no matter how perfect it felt in the moment, her timing really could not have been worse. Because she can tell neither one of them have the first clue what that kiss meant or even what they want it to mean. And here she is abandoning him to limbo, to suspended animation because she was stupid enough to kiss him in a house full of people who all want a piece of her tonight, and she owes it to them to deliver.

Ben nods, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Yeah sure."

"Are you going to stay up here, or-"

"No, no, I'll be down in a second."

"I'll try to get everyone not to stay too long."

He shakes his head, takes a step towards her and reaches out, hand closing around her wrist, thumb automatically skirting her watchband in gentle reassurance, "Don't. Don't do that. This is your night. Enjoy it."

"But-"

He tilts his head to the doorway with a smile, "Go get 'em, Madam Representative."

**00**

It turns out to be a good thing she doesn't try to get rid of people.

The effort would have been embarrassingly futile.

Big important Representative-elect, trumped by seventeen adrenaline-high college students; a married couple with a peter-pan complex; one small ascot-wearing former co-worker; and Jean Ralphio.

Oh yeah she's gonna strike fear in the halls of the State-house.

After half-an-hour of subtly trying to steer people to the door and failing miserably, she gives in and lets herself get swept up in the jubilant revelry that's taken over her home. It's not a party so much as it is a collective exhale, a group cheer. People are high-fiving and having everyone autograph lawn-signs like memorabilia and telling campaign war-stories that weren't funny thirty minutes ago but they all find hilarious now.

But even in the midst of all of it, of sitting back on the couch with Madison and indulging in a ridiculous wish list of first-bills, of signing lawn-signs and standing in front of the crowd of core volunteers to give out made-up campaign-mvp awards using beer bottles as trophies (_Best "Vote Knope" rap – Jean Ralphio. Longest endurance of an angry rant for something beyond his control – Jerry. Most-likely to come back with a full petition due to intimidation – April. Most likely to come back with a petition full of girls' phone numbers – Really, Tom, really? Most likely to get arrested while putting up signs - Poor Andy, that's a long story_). Throughout all of it there's never a moment when she isn't aware of him. Aware of Ben standing in the background, sitting on the sidelines, watching her.

It feels like a study, like an examination or an analysis. Like he's positing hypotheticals and drawing conclusions.

Feels like she's a test he's trying to pass with flying colors, only she doesn't even know the questions, and she wishes he'd slip her a few of the answers.

She tries to calm down, take a breath, a beat. To give this even one-tenth of the careful consideration she knows is warrants. But her mind keeps stopping on the kiss itself hitting pause and rewind and repeat and the only thing she knows is how incredibly _right_everything in her life felt at that moment.

And the only answer she's coming up with is _'Yes.'_

**00**

Things finally break-up around one in the morning. Tom, bless his heart, announces that he's moving things out to the Snakehole and there will be half-priced drinks for everyone with a campaign t-shirt, and the volunteers follow the promise of cheap of booze like he's the Pied Piper, until it's just her and Ben.

And Madison apparently.

"Hey," Leslie comes to sit down beside her at the kitchen table. "Hey, you've worked really hard. You should go out with everyone. Have some fun."

Madison doesn't glance up from her computer. "Yeah, I will. I just want to get our blog updated with things before I go. There's a lot we should say now, while we've got people's attention-"

Because sometime subtlety isn't the best tactic when Madison gets ultra-focused like this, Leslie casually reaches over and yanks out the power cord on the laptop.

The other woman looks up, blinks, and then seems to focus on Leslie's face, reading the unspoken command there. Shuts her laptop. "All of which I am going to go do later. At home. Because apparently I really want to go out."

Leslie smiles. "Good, you deserve some fun."

Madison's eyes flick over her shoulder to the kitchen where Ben has retreated, and then back to Leslie. And the look she gives her is all too knowing, instantly conjures a dozen dangerous and tempting scenarios in her mind.

"So do you."

Sometimes she wishes Madison knew the meaning of the word deferential.

**00**

Leslie makes her way back to the kitchen after Madison leaves, to find Ben emptying beer bottles into the sink. He finishes with one, tossing it over into the recycle bin, and the clank of glass against glass sounds unnaturally loud in the newly quiet house, makes her suddenly shy, hyper-conscious of the fact that they're alone.

"Hey."

She says it softly, a tentative testing of the waters, but Ben obviously didn't hear her come in and the sound makes him jump a little.

God, they're both so keyed up right now it will be a miracle if one of them doesn't snap.

He turns to look at her, leaning back against the sink in a way might be an attempt at appearing casual if he didn't half-look like he needed it for support. "Hey."

This for the moment seems to be the full extent of their conversational abilities.

Finally Leslie tries again. "So, um, everybody's taken off. Even Madison."

"How'd you pull that off?"

"Every once in awhile we both remember I'm her boss."

"Always valuable to keep in mind."

"Yeah."

And that brings that particular gambit to a crashing halt.

She doesn't know why this is so hard. It's not that either one of them are actively trying to avoid the topic of what happened earlier. If anything it's almost palpable how much they're not avoiding it. How much they both want to talk about it. But somehow neither of them seems to know how to start and they're both so afraid of doing it wrong that they can't do anything at all.

It's Ben who seems to find his footing first. "So, um, I might be mistaken, it's been a crazy night, but I'm pretty sure you kissed me earlier."

Leslie swallows and nods. "I did."

The confirmation seems to snap one of the too-taut wires of uncertainty running between them, and for a second they wind up smiling at each other, like school-children with a wonderful secret.

Ben recalls himself first. "You know someone once told me that you can't just randomly kiss someone with no explanation. Apparently, it's rude."

The sound of her own words from so long ago coming back to taunt her, makes Leslie laugh a little under her breath, but there's a brittleness to it, a tiny thread of tension. Because honestly, she's not sure she has a good explanation. Or rather she has a very good explanation, but it would just open a Pandora's box of issues and emotions between them she's not sure they'd ever manage to close.

When she doesn't immediately offer a response, Ben tries again. "Okay, so let me tell you the explanations I've come up with and you tell me if I'm right or wrong. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," He pushes away from the sink and takes a half step towards her. "So explanation one: You thought I was someone else."

That makes her laugh despite herself, and she shakes her head.

"Good, because that would have been embarrassing." He takes another step towards her. "Explanation two: You got caught up in the moment and it was an accident."

This time he's not joking. His voice is deadly serious and she can tell he's offering her the out, the chance to backpedal, to reset. What she can't tell is whether he _wants_her to take it.

It doesn't matter. This thing she has for him, this constant, steadily growing thing has already been unleashed, and it isn't going to die from simple indifference or neglect. It's ravenous and persistent and it will scavenge on every scrap it can find to survive. So if this can't happen, if he doesn't want it or won't chance it, she needs to hear him say the words, needs him to strike the death-blow and kill it for her.

So Leslie shores up her courage, and leaps.

"It was, at first."

Ben takes a deep breath and picks up the gauntlet. "And then?"

She meets his eyes dead on. "And then it wasn't."

If she'd expected a big response, an emotional outpouring, she would have been sorely disappointed. Ben barely reacts at all, just a flicker of acknowledgment that makes her feel like she's not revealed a shocking twist but rather confirmed a long-held suspicion. And for a moment he simply stands there, absorbing the words, weighing his options, not coming to a decision, so much as taking a moment to reexamine one already made. And she wishes she knew what that decision was, but Ben has never been more of a closed book to her than at this moment.

And she feels like she's about to die, like the silence is going to kill her, and even though she knows she should just shut up and let him get where he needs to go in his own time, she starts talking anyway, a nervous ramble she can't control. "I know we agreed to just be friends. I know that. And I don't want to lose that. I would give anything to take it back if this means I'm going to lose that. But I can't and I at least owe you the truth about why it happened."

She finishes and the silence returns and Ben's still looking at her. And then finally, finally, he speaks.

"Yeah, okay, I just, um, I need to-" he trails off.

Leslie blinks. "What?"

But Ben doesn't respond, simply takes a deliberate step towards her, crossing the boundary into her personal space. Reaching out he brushes a renegade curl out of her eyes, tucks it behind her ear, and drops his hand to cup her face, his thumb swiping along the line of her cheekbone.

It's measured and careful, and when he finally lowers his mouth to hers it's done with a thoughtful, considered, intention that makes it all feel a bit like an investigation. Like he's cataloguing evidence, looking for corroboration.

None of that stops it from being absolutely amazing. If anything, slow, purposeful pace just heightens the experience, lets her savor every sensation, every feeling unfolding inside her.

Leslie sighs a little in the back of her throat, and the sound seems to spur Ben on. His other hand moves to the small of her back and he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss, pursuing the lead. And she doesn't know exactly what he's looking for, but she knows the moment he finds it, because there's a shift in tempo, a quickening of pace, and she can feel something in him break free, slip it's leash.

And suddenly he's kissing her in a way that has nothing to with clarifications or confirmations. Kissing her with a visceral certainty that says whatever else, whatever reservations or hesitations he might still have, right here right now, one thing is crystal clear—he _wants_her.

The feel of it, the unchecked desire in his touch, makes her body go liquid and her mind go blank. And the next thing she knows she's backing him against the counter, and he's spinning them around to lift her up on to it and she's wrapping her legs around him and her hands are scrambling to untuck his shirt. And _god_she just needs him closer.

Finally her palm settles against his skin, and she barely has time to revel in the sensation, savor the victory, because the touch seems to snap him back to reality, and Ben tears his mouth away, dropping his forehead to hers with a groan.

Instinctively, her hands move to either side of his face, even as her legs tighten around his hips, trying to hold him there, keep him with her.

The effort proves unnecessary. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere, just stands there, eyes closed, hand at the nape of her neck, breathing her in.

"Ben?"

His hand tightens a little in her hair, and he sighs. "Okay." Presses his forehead against hers and squeezes his eyes shut hard, repeating the word. "Okay."

And then he's stepping back, pushing away.

She lets him go for the most part, only reaching out to grab hold of his wrist at the last minute before he can leave her completely. "Don't-"

"I'm not. I mean I am, but not-" He shakes his head, rubs his free hand across his face and resets, "Leslie, we can't just- There's a reason, a whole lot of reasons, we are what we are, and as much as I wish right now I could wave my hands and make them all go away I can't. We need to talk about this."

She nods. "I know." Gets down from the counter and starts to head out of the kitchen. "Why don't we go sit at the table?"

Ben doesn't move with her. "No, not tonight."

"But-"

"Leslie you've just won an election and I know you barely got any sleep last night. You're running on nothing more than sugar and too much caffeine and so much adrenaline you're practically high. And I think, um," he coughs, and gives her wry, embarrassed smile "I think we've both just demonstrated that our judgment isn't all there."

Then suddenly serious once again, he steps back towards her, "I don't want you making a decision about this right now. Hell, I don't want to be making a decision about this right now. There's too much at stake here." Bringing his free hand up to cup her face, he continues, "This isn't about a first-date or even a sixth. Not for me. If there's one thing I know, it's that I don't know how to be casual about you. There's no kind of or maybe or halfway for me. It's all in, it's everything. So if I do this, if we do this, you need to know that. You need to think about what that means and if you're willing to accept that. And I need to think about whether I'm willing to take the risk."

She doesn't say anything immediately. Bites down hard on the instant protest that she knows what she wants. Because maybe she doesn't. Because Ben would never believe it anyway. Because even though she knows, has known for awhile now, that she's more than a little bit in love with him, it's one thing to do it in that private, passive way you do when you're carrying a torch for someone. It's quite another to engage, to take on the active, messy reality of being loved back and all the responsibility that entails. Particularly with a man whose life is two hours away and has just given you fair warning that his intentions would be everything short of getting down on bended knee.

If she's willing to accept that.

If he's willing to risk it.

And that's really the bigger question, isn't it? If he's willing to risk it, to bet on her, willing to put his battered, crazy-glued heart back in the hands of the woman who broke it in the first place, and trust she won't do it again?

The truly horrible thing? There's a part of her that thinks he shouldn't. The part that just wants to protect him, wants to wrap him in cotton and kill anything that ever tries to hurt him again, thinks this is madness, thinks she's too risky, and he should run the other way hard and fast and far.

But she knows it would kill her if he did, and sometimes the survival instinct is just too strong, too selfish, so she looks up and asks, "And if you aren't willing to risk it? What happens then?"

"Honestly?" he shakes his head, "I don't know."

"I can't lose you again."

"I know. I don't want to lose you either."

She covers the hand on her cheek with her own and looks up at him. "Promise me that whatever happens, we'll at least try to stay friends."

Ben sighs, "Leslie, I don't know if-"

"I'm not asking for a guarantee that it will work. That it won't turn out to be something we can't get past. I just- I can't have you disappear from my life like that again. Not without fighting it. So please just promise me we'll try."

He doesn't say anything for moment, just looks at her. Then his face softens into something that's almost a smile and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course we'll try."

Leslie closes her eyes as he presses a kiss to her forehead and sighs in relief, "Thank you."

**00**

There's not much to say to each other after that, and there's still something in the air, a dangerous electricity that feels like it could spark at any moment, so when Ben moves to leave her in the kitchen and head upstairs, she lets him go, tries to busy herself with cleanup. Tries to give him space.

Still when she starts to come down from her adrenaline high, and the need for sleep begins to press against her, weighing down her muscles, she can't manage to curtail the impulse to knock on his door to say good night.

Only his door isn't closed. It's standing wide open and the overhead light is on.

And Ben's packing.

She feels like he's punched her, like he's abandoning her all over again.

"You're leaving?" The words scrape in her throat, come out harsh and sharp and accusatory.

Ben drops a folded t-shirt into the bag and zips it up without looking at her. "Yeah, I think I need to."

"I thought we were going to talk."

That makes him snap his head up. "We are. Leslie, of course we are."

"But you're leaving. How can we talk if you're just running out?"

The light goes on in Ben's head. "No. When I said I didn't want to talk about this tonight, I didn't just mean I wanted to sleep on it. You've got a million changes happening in your life that you need to sort out right now. You need days, maybe weeks to process that. And even if you don't. I do." He grabs the bag off the bed and walks over to the door, "So I'm going to go back up to Indy and we'll take a little time. And then we'll talk. Okay?"

She nods, "Okay."

"Good," Ben exhales and takes a step forward, but Leslie remains rooted in the doorway blocking his path and he doesn't seem willing to squeeze past her or move her aside.

"You still can't leave."

"Leslie-"

"No," she puts a hand on his chest, giving him a little shove back into the room. "No. It's two in the morning. You're distracted and tired and you can't do the two hour drive back like this. It's too dangerous. I won't let you. Give me your keys."

Ben takes another step back. "I'm not giving you my keys."

"Don't think I won't take them." She makes a move towards his pockets, and he drops the bag, his hands flying to her wrists to ward her off.

"Don't-"

"I'm not letting you drive back."

She struggles a little against his grip in silent punctuation, underlining her resolve. To her surprise, Ben's hands bite down hard in response. "I'll get a hotel room."

"That's stupid. I have a perfectly good bed and there is absolutely no reason-"

"Leslie-"

Her name comes out in hoarse whisper, a raw plea that makes her eyes fly to his, and the way he's looking at her, like she's both a dream and a nightmare, like he's terrified of her and desperate for her simultaneously, like he's three seconds away from doing something truly, monumentally stupid, makes all remaining protests die in her throat.

Ben lets go of her wrists and takes a step back, releasing the shaky exhale of someone who just dodged a bullet.

"I'll call around and see if I can find a room in town. I won't try to drive back tonight, okay?"

She nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That's- that's probably for the best."

"Leslie we _will_talk about this, I promise."

"I know. I just- it feels like you're leaving all over again."

"Hey," he touches her shoulder, and then after a beat of decision, steps forward to wrap his arms around her. "Hey, that's not what's happening here. Okay?"

Leslie sighs against his chest, "I know."

It doesn't sound very certain to either of them.

Ben breaks the embrace and holds her at arm's length so he can look her in the eye. "Look, let's do this. Let's make an appointment. Say, a week and a half from now. We both take a week and a half to think everything through, and then I'll come back down next Saturday and we'll talk. How does that sound?"

It sounds like she's about to endure the longest week and a half of her life, but she knows it's the right thing to do and she nods in agreement. "Yeah, that um, that sounds good."

He releases her and picks the bag back up. This time when he moves to go she doesn't stop him, just stays standing in the middle of the room.

But when she hears his tread on the stairwell, something occurs to her and she moves to the threshold to call after him. "Ben-"

He stops on the stairs and turns to look up at her, and somehow without her continuing he knows what she wants. Gives her a small reassuring smile, "I'll text you when I get in."

And then he's gone.

**00**

She does not in fact sleep on it.

She does not in fact sleep at all.

At least not the first night. She's wired and strung out, and so physically tired it's almost painful but her mind is racing in a thousand different directions and all she can do is lie in bed thinking about everything without actually being able to maintain her focus on one-thing long enough for it to do any good.

Finally when she starts to see the sun peaking through her curtains and she knows this means it's past seven (_stupid Eastern time-zone, stupid winter_), she gives in and does the only thing she can think of.

She calls Ann.

Greg picks up, and she can hear Abigail screaming in the background. Knows instantly from his voice that he's gotten no more sleep than she has, and all other thoughts fly out of her head.

"Is Abigail okay?"

"Um, she's got a slight fever. Ann's been monitoring her all night and doesn't think we need to take her to the emergency room yet, but you know," his voice sounds thin with worry.

She presses a hand to her head. "Yeah, yeah of course. Tell Ann not to worry about calling me back, just you know keep me updated and let me know if there's anything I can do, anything you need at all."

"Thanks Leslie."

And then he's gone and she has something else to occupy her thoughts.

**00**

Ben texts that he's back in Indy around noon, prompting an almost hour long debate about whether or not to call him.

Finally she texts him back a simple 'thank you.' Then follows it up with a 'See you Saturday'.

Then the date in case he was confused.

Then a time.

Then inexplicably the address to her house.

She winds up putting her phone in the freezer just to stop herself.

**00**

Madison doesn't show up until almost five in the afternoon, obviously thinking she'd given Leslie time to revel in and then recover from the night of debauchery she'd been imagining, and proud of herself for her restraint. It only takes her fifteen minutes to assess her boss's coherence and find it sadly lacking.

"Have you slept at all?"

"No."

"Do you need me to kill him?"

"Please don't."

"Okay then." She reaches over and takes away the cup of coffee Leslie's been nursing. "Well sleep-stupid doesn't work for me, so here." She pulls a bottle of Tylenol pm out of her purse. "Take two of those and half a glass of wine and go upstairs."

"I don't think this is the intended usage."

"Yeah, but it works and I don't care."

**00**

It does turn out to work. Either that or she's just finally reached the point where her need for sleep has bludgeoned her mind into submission. Whatever the cause, it's Thursday morning by the time she wakes.

The last time she did that she was nineteen and coming off a three-day long all-nighter.

She gets up and goes for a walk, winds up at Ramsett Park without realizing that's where she was going. And for moment she hesitates, because she's forty-three and an elected official and this is stupid and she could very possibly break her neck, but some part of her, some seven-year old part that once believed everything was possible and she wants to find again, propels her forward.

She climbs the jungle gym to watch the sun rise.

Winds up facing the bench where her father used to sit instead.

There was a time when he had been her constant, when she always knew where to find him. Turn her head, peek around the tree and there he would be, grading a math quiz, writing up a lesson plan, ready to set it aside the moment she demanded his attention. Until one day, one horrible day seemingly out of blue, and yet not really, her parents sat her down and gave her a careful pre-prepared speech about how daddy wasn't going to be living with them anymore, but she would see him on holidays and long weekends and summers and he would always love her.

And she'd nodded and she'd cried and she'd hugged them both and pretended everything was all right, but it wasn't. Because she was eleven and she knew what divorce meant. Knew dads moved away and got new wives and new families and her dad might have been her constant but her mom was her hero, and Leslie's never really forgiven her father for not worshipping her too.

Even after all these years, after they've put most of that behind them, there's still something off about it. Something that makes her always delay a phone call an extra day and never spend the night when she visits. And she tells her Dad it's because she's busy, because it's not that long a drive back from Terra-Haute where he lives. And he tells her he understands. But they both know what's going on.

Only now she suddenly has a million questions she wants to ask him. All the explanations she never wanted to hear, forced him to whitewash over with a sunny smile and a 'Dad, it's okay'. She wants to know if he ever really loved her mother, if there was something she could have done to keep him. Wants to know why he resented Marlene's successes so much when he'd seemed so willing to give up everything for her to accomplish them.

Wants to call him up and simply say _"Daddy I'm in love with a boy and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Daddy, tell me what to do."_

But the bench is empty and her phone's still in the freezer and she knows when she gets back to her house the impulse will be gone.

**00**

Sure enough she goes back home and unfreezes her phone and goes on with her life. Sits down with Madison to start the logistical nightmare of transferring her council files and packing up her office for the Statehouse.

Goes to watch-over Abigail so Ann can get at least a few hours sleep.

Sits on the counter in the kitchen, the top of her stairs, the bed in her guest-room and thinks about Ben.

Never calls her father.

And then on Saturday morning at nine a.m. just as she's sitting down for waffles at JJ's, her father calls her.

Only it's not her father, it's a man's voice she doesn't recognize, asking for Leslie Knope, for 'Robert Knope's daughter' and saying words like 'I'm very sorry' and 'emergency contact' and 'heart-attack'.

And the bottom drops out of her world.

_"Daddy I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Daddy, tell me what to do."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Trust me. There's a reason I'm doing this I swear.**  
><strong>

**A/N - 2: **Yes I am aware that there's a line in the first season that establishes Leslie's dad is buried in a cemetery in Florida, but despite my best attempts at research the detail somehow escaped me until after this and the next part were already plotted fairly firmly. So lets call it artistic license. Okay? Okay then.


	7. Chapter 7

There's about three seconds after she processes what the man on the phone is saying when she doesn't believe it, when she's convinced there's been some kind of horrible mistake, some awful mix-up. That he's talking about some other Robert Knope. That her father's not dead.

Because he can't be dead. He can't be dead because she was just going to call him. Because just a few days ago she was sitting on a jungle gym and thinking about all the questions she still needed to ask him.

He can't be dead because she hasn't asked them yet.

Because she was supposed to have more time.

There's a pause on the end of the line and then a gentle, "Ms. Knope?"

It pulls her back, and drags her down, plunges her into the ice-water reality. Her father is dead. Her dad, her daddy. He's gone, and she's drowning.

She takes a shuddering, gasping breath, scrambling for air. "Yes, yes I'm here."

"I'm sorry for this, but there are a few questions I need to ask you."

Leslie listens as the man starts going through questions she doesn't know the answers to—"Did you know if your father had any specific wishes about how his body would be handled?" (_She doesn't. Why would she?_) "Would you like us to give you the name of some funeral homes?" (_Yes? What other answer is there?_) "Is there anyone you'd like us to call?" (_Oh god, she doesn't know. She doesn't know her father's friends or who he worked with or if he had a lady friend. How is she supposed to find that out? Oh god, how is she going to tell her mother?_).

And she can feel everything start to rise to overwhelm her, and then just as quickly it's like her mind's pulled an emergency brake, hit a panic button. Like her brain has willfully disconnected itself from her body, and shoved everything back, locked it down so she can function, so she can work.

"There is some paperwork you'll have to come fill out here. Your contact information indicates you live out of town. When do you think you'll be able to make arrangements to come in? We can make an appointment."

That one she at least can answer or try to answer. She presses the heels of her palms against her closed eyelids and tries to think. Let's see an hour to pack up and call Madison, call Ann. She'll have to track her mother down and somehow tell her. She can't do that over the phone, can she? No. No, of course not. Where is Marlene usually on Saturday mornings? Is that the literacy group or the woman's caucus? God, she doesn't want to do this in a public setting. Why can't her mother be like normal retired people and take up gardening? And then inexplicably she has a flash of Marlene Griggs-Knope on her hands and knees complete with power-suit and broach pulling weeds, and she can't help the tiny hiccup of inappropriate laughter that escapes her like a sob.

"Miss?"

No right, refocus, she pushes that down. An hour to talk to her mother, on the road by say noon? Is noon realistic? Does she have gas in her car? Say noon. Then it's what, almost a three hour drive to her father's house?

Only she's not going to her father's house, is she?

"I'm sorry, um, which hospital did you say you were calling from?"

"Terre Haute Regional."

"Oh. Is that- Is that north or south of the city?"

"We're right near the interstate."

Okay closer than her father's house, then.

"Um, two-thirty? Three o'clock? I can be there by then."

"I'll make the appointment. Forgive me for asking this, but do you have anyone who can accompany you? Maybe a spouse or a friend? Someone who can look out for you at this time. We find it's often helpful to the families to have an extra set of ears when making these arrangements."

She thinks of Ann. Ann who's been sleep-deprived for a week tending to her sick daughter and she can't call with this. But who will, of course, be the first person she calls with this. She thinks of Madison, who is many things, efficient and capable, but comforting is not one of them. She thinks of Ben, who she's not supposed to be calling at all, and immediately shoves that thought aside.

"Yeah, I've, um, I'll find someone."

**[]**

It's Ann.

Of course, it's Ann.

Ann who barely lets Leslie get the words 'my father's died,' out of her mouth before she's over at her house with a file folder of internet research on Terre Haute funeral homes, and packing an overnight bag, while Leslie tries to track down her mother.

Marlene sends her to voicemail twice and then turns off her phone, obviously in the middle of something she doesn't think can be interrupted. And even though there's absolutely no reason for her mom to know what's going on, Leslie finds herself growing more and more frustrated with every wall and roadblock she hits. Until for the first time in recent memory, she is actually truly angry with her mother. Because she's supposed to be retired, because it's just work and Leslie's her daughter, and why can't she just once, just one damned time step out of whatever meeting she's in and pick up her fucking phone because her daughter needs to talk to her.

By the time she does get her mother on the restaurant phone, when she finally remembers where the women's caucus was meeting for brunch this month, she's wound coil-spring tight. And everything goes horribly wrong.

Marlene answers with an abrupt, "Really Leslie, Marcia Langdon is trying to get everyone to support a petition to revisit the banning 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' as promoting witchcraft and debauchery. You know how long and hard I worked to get that ban lifted the first time round. What's so important that it couldn't wait?"

"Dad's dead."

Silence.

Leslie bends forward on the couch and buries her face in her hands. God she can't believe she just did that. Why did she just do that? She was supposed to ask her mother to come over. Supposed to sit her down and break the news gently, not pack it with all her own anger and regret and pain and fire it at her mom like a bullet.

Only Marlene's still not saying anything, not even a muffled sob, and it doesn't matter that she hasn't cried yet either, Leslie can feel it all start to build again.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Finally Marlene finds her voice and it's as business like and professional as always, "When?"

"This morning."

"What happened?"

"Heart attack."

There's a sigh. "He never ate correctly. Man had a sweet tooth the size of Texas. And the eggs. Oh dear god the eggs."

"Mom-"

"I'm sorry sweetheart but it's true. Nothing but red meat and breakfast food, and he would hide chocolate all over the house. I tried to get him to at least cut back on the eggs, but-"

"Stop it. Mom, just stop it!"

That seems to snap her back. "No, right, of course- So you'll- I suppose you'll go up and make the funeral arrangements?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to call you before I left."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

The question throws her for a loop, because she'd never expected her mother to make the offer because when all is said and done this is still her ex-husband, the man who left over twenty-years ago. And it's horrible but at the moment, Leslie can't think of anything she wants less than to sit in a car for three hours watching her mother successfully hold it together. "No, I've, um, I've got it. Ann's going to come with me. She's a nurse so she knows her way around the hospital paperwork anyway."

"Oh. Yes. It's always a good idea to have someone with expertise in the system. Well then, you'll take care of calling everyone?"

"Yes."

"And you'll need to let the papers know when the service is. People will want to come pay their respects since he was your father. Particularly so soon after the election."

She hadn't even thought about it, but the next thing she knows she's making a decision all the same. "No. No. Put a notice in the paper if you want, but I'm going to have the service up in Terre Haute. Where he lived. Where his friends were."

And her voice must be a little harsher than she intends because Marlene pauses, nonplussed, then says, "Well, it sounds like you have everything under control. I should- I should get back in there before Marcia Langdon wins this simply because no one wants to stand up to her."

"God, Mom, just-"

Her mother cuts her off, with a brittle snap. "It was your father's favorite play, Leslie. It was his favorite play."

"I'm sorry."

"It made him laugh," Marlene murmurs half to herself.

Yeah it did. Leslie remembers now. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Don't let her win."

**[]**

The next few days feel like they go by in an absolute blur. Like she's holding herself together with paper and pen-ink and important details that feel totally inconsequential. But she's always been good at this, at organization and logistics, at putting together events and making them special, making them memorable.

Her father's funeral can't be the one time her talent fails her.

That doesn't mean she doesn't lose it. She does. The first time happens when she gets to the hospital and goes to identify herself to the front desk only to have a heavyset man about her father's age get up from a chair in the waiting-room to come introduce himself with a soft, "You must be Leslie. I'm John. I was out birding with Robert when it happened."

And she's so grateful to find out her father didn't die alone, that he wasn't simply discovered in his house by a delivery man or a cleaning lady that he died doing something he loved, something that made him happy, that she throws her arms around this man. Around this stranger she's never met who knows her on sight, and finally, finally cries.

John turns out to be a friend from work. The head of the high-school's science department. Widowed at a forty. As the only two single middle-aged men in a land ruled by women, he and her dad apparently forged a bond that lasted through school transfers and a late remarriage on John's part.

It is immediately apparent that John is her father's Ann (_was her father's Ann. God she's never going to get the tense right_). He's soft-spoken, but loquacious, telling her how Robert always talked about her, about his daughter with her brilliant ideas and her big heart.

"Of course, that's no surprise given who your father was."

Except it is a surprise. Because as much as she loved her father, for all the good and wonderful things she saw in him, Leslie never saw herself.

"Tell me."

It's all the invitation John needs to talk about his friend. It's an odd thing to sit in a hospital waiting room and meet her father through a stranger. To have something as simple and basic as the fact Robert Knope taught high-school math for almost forty-years brought vibrantly alive, transformed into a quiet epic in the mirror of someone else's admiration.

Her father developed the school's first advanced calculus curriculum.

Her father ran a contest math team that dominated the state tournaments for ten years.

Her father could teach geometry through art and algebra with architecture.

Her father was still changing his lesson plans up until the very last year. Never settled. Never got complacent.

Her father was passionate. Her father was committed. Her father loved his work and the community he served. Her father believed what he did mattered, and he did it better than anyone.

Her father was all the things Leslie ever tried to be.

And she never knew.

When John's done, she doesn't quite know what to say. How to put the gift he's just given her into words. But she tries all the same.

"Will you give his eulogy?"

John looks taken aback. "I don't know what I'd say."

"You already said it."

**[]**

The funeral happens on a sunny, but cold Wednesday morning.

It's not a large service. She hadn't expected it to be. (_Her dad comes from a small family, just him and a much older sister who moved to South Carolina to be close to her grandchildren and is now too sick to travel._) But it's by no means an empty one either.

In his own way. In his own, quiet, unassuming way Robert Knope apparently had just as much impact on his small corner of the community as her mother ever had on Pawnee. There are old teachers her father worked with, and new teachers he mentored. Former students he inspired, and current students he tutored for free. There are three men from his bowling team, and a number of couples from his church.

There's Greg who brings Abigail and comes to join his poor, tired wife who hasn't left Leslie's side in three days.

There's her mother, who comes into the church and stands there almost at a loss, almost small, until Leslie gets up and goes to hug her, brings her to sit beside her in the front row.

And there's Ben.

Ben who slips in the back and tries to get lost in the crowd. Ben who she doesn't see until the service is over. Until people are starting to file out, to make their way to the cemetery, and suddenly there he is, sitting in the far corner unmoving, looking to her for some indication, some sign or signal.

When she pauses in the aisle, he gets up and slowly comes over, still a little hesitant, a little tentative. Stops a foot away, and lifts his hand almost as if to touch her, then drops it, unsure whether he's allowed.

"Ann called me," he offers apparently thinking she needs an explanation for his presence. Thinking he needs to apologize for it. "I wanted to come sooner, but I knew she was with you and I didn't-"

He breaks off, still uncertain, obviously half-convinced he's done exactly the wrong thing, that he's somehow made everything worse by being here, upended her equilibrium in some way.

She wants to tell him she doesn't have an equilibrium to upend right now.

Still maybe he has. Maybe tomorrow or the next day or the day after that Leslie will wake up and wish he hadn't come, wish he hadn't made himself so available to lean on when their entire relationship is in question, when he might not be around at all a month from now.

But today she's burying her father, and telling her mother what to do, and everything's wrong and backwards and nothing's like it's supposed to be. And Ben's here and she just wants to be held, wants it to be him that holds her, and she doesn't care about much of anything beyond that.

She takes a stuttering half step forward.

It's all the permission he needs.

Ben wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her to him with a quiet, "Leslie, I'm so sorry."

And even though she's heard those same words a hundred times since Saturday, over and over until they feel like the only thing anyone knows how to say anymore, until she thought she'd go crazy if she ever had to hear them again. Out of his mouth, in this moment, they're exactly right.

**[]**

They don't say much else, but he stays close after that. Stepping into Ann's role like a relief pitcher, giving the other woman a chance to breath, to rest, to tend to her own family again.

He leaves his car at the church and rides with them to the cemetery. Stands there beside her as her father's casket is lowered into the ground. And it's only when he's walked back over to the car to leave Leslie alone at the graveside with her mother, and she feels the absence of his palm against hers that she realizes she never asked him to come, never said anything at all.

She simply never let go of his hand.

Marlene looks out over the cemetery to where Ben is standing by the car waiting for them.

"Didn't he used to work for the city?"

Of all the times to have this conversation.

Still, Leslie has no idea how to start any other conversation, and maybe they both just need to focus on something else for the moment. "Yeah he did, about five years ago."

"He was part of that state auditing team that came in, wasn't he?"

Really her mother's memory for faces never ceases to astonish her. She nods. "That's what brought him to Pawnee. Then he stayed on for awhile when Chris Traeger became City Manager."

"I didn't realize you'd kept in touch."

There's something sharp and a little hurt in Marlene's voice, like she can't believe Leslie didn't tell her this. And maybe that's justified. Her mother's met every other serious boyfriend Leslie's ever had. She's a gauntlet they have to run and not a lot get through (_in fact if she thinks about it an astonishing number of breakups came shortly after meeting her mother_). Maybe she should apologize for keeping the one man who might have been more important than any other a secret.

She doesn't. Instead she says. "We just recently got back in touch, but you've met him before. He was at my birthday in August."

Marlene nods like she's placed him now, then returns to her scrutiny. And Leslie waits for the inevitable list. The bullet-point discussion of his flaws, his failings. He's too thin, too short, too tall. His handshake is weak, he obviously lacks confidence. His handshake's too strong, what is he compensating for? He's too soft with her. He's not soft enough. And it doesn't matter that Ben hasn't said more than ten words to her mother. Marlene Griggs-Knope has judged people and found them wanting based on far less. So when her mother finally opens her mouth what actually comes out blindsides Leslie with the force of a freight train.

"He's in love with you, isn't he?"

She's not actually asking of course, just seeking for confirmation, evaluating the impact. And Leslie's sure that whatever her mother's looking for, it's written all over her face. Because it's one thing to know Ben's attracted to her, know he cares for her deeply, but the idea that he might actually be in love with her, might already as far gone as she is? She's never let herself consider it, never come close to allowing herself to even touch that thought.

Her eyes fly back over to where he's standing, and she finds herself scouring his face looking for whatever it is her mom sees.

But she doesn't see anything. No miraculous change or new light. Just Ben. Steady, dependable, constant Ben, waiting for her. Looking at her exactly the way he always has.

Leslie drops her gaze, uncomfortable with that idea for some reason. "I um- I don't know- maybe. But we're not- It's not-" she shakes her head with a sigh, "It's just not that simple, mom."

At that her mother looks down at her the freshly turned earth at their feet and sighs, "No, it rarely is."

That makes her think of all the things she'll never be able to ask her father, all the questions she left too late. And this has never been a comfortable subject for either of them, and Marlene's usually such a force of nature, that Leslie doesn't fight it. But it's been a long time since she's seen her mother this vulnerable, and she just- she needs to ask someone.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"You and dad? You loved each other when you got married, didn't you?"

Marlene nods, her face softening into something that's almost girlish. "Oh yes. Very much."

"What happened?"

Her mother shakes her head starts to recall herself, box herself back up. "Leslie, this really isn't the time."

"It's never the right time," she sighs. It's the same rationalization they've both been using for over twenty years. When one of them is ready the other isn't interested. They just keep missing each other, keep waiting for a better moment. But she's done waiting.

She grabs her mother's hand. "I was going to call dad." Marlene looks over at her in shock, and Leslie continues, "You know we never talked about it either. I never let him. Then Thursday before he died I was going to call him, and I didn't. I lost my nerve again. Mom, please?"

Because at the end of the day for all her legendary toughness, for all her barb-wire and steel-plating, her mother is still her mother and Leslie's still her little girl, it's the 'Mom, please' that does it. Marlene relents with a sigh.

"It wasn't any one thing, sweetheart. It almost never is."

"But it started when you got promoted. I remember that. I remember going out to celebrate, and all of us being so happy. And then everything changed. It was like dad hated your job. Hated that you were so successful."

Marlene purses her lips considering the idea, her hand moving from Leslie's grasp to tug at the cuffs of her gloves. Then she nods, "He probably did hate my job, eventually." She takes a long pause and Leslie can see her stealing herself to say what she's about to. "To be honest I don't think your father liked who I became after that very much."

No, he didn't. Leslie can hear the doors closing and the hushed voices and bitter note in his voice when he told her mommy had to work late. And these aren't at all the memories she wants right now, but they're the memories she has. She turns her head away and whispers. "So he just left us?"

"Oh Leslie, no. No, we left each other. Your father may have been the one to move, but we both left. In some ways you could even argue I left first."

And she doesn't know what to do with that, so she doesn't do anything, just stands there and waits for her mom to continue. Eventually Marlene does. "Back then we were both naïve about what it took to succeed at that level, let alone for a woman to do it. Your father even moreso than me. He didn't have any political ambitions, all he'd ever wanted to do was teach math and be married to the woman down the hall who read Shakespeare out loud to her class."

"You?"

"Me." Her mother smiles and Leslie can see the start of tears in her eyes. "I was the one with all the ambition. And I was willing to do whatever it took to fulfill that ambition. I wanted it so much, but I suppose you could say it didn't always bring out my best side. At least not side your father fell in love with. And of course your father was so set in his ways he refused to change at all. He could be so stubborn that way. Eventually it was like we'd forgotten how to live with each other."

"But still. He shouldn't have expected you not to change. Just to stay an English teacher all your life."

"Probably not. And I probably shouldn't have expected him to change quite so much. We got married young and I didn't have the first clue who I wanted to be and your father thought he knew exactly who he wanted to be. There's nothing necessarily wrong with that. It worked for plenty of our friends. They grew into themselves together. But I think with any marriage that every once in awhile there's comes a point where you have to choose that other person again. At some point your father and I simply stopped choosing each other."

Leslie stares down at the ground at her feet and tries to process her mother's words. Tries to come to grips with the idea that she had gotten it all right and all wrong at the same time. She'd always known her father hadn't been happy after her mom was promoted to the school district's administration, but she'd thought it was because he resented her mother's success while he just remained a teacher, because he'd given up something for her mother's dreams.

But It had never occurred to her that the something Robert Knope gave up was the woman he married.

"Why did you do it? If it made dad so unhappy, if you cared about him, why didn't you quit or change less or try to do something to stop it?"

Marlene shakes her head like Leslie should know better. "Griggs women barrel full speed ahead. Quitting isn't really in our nature."

It feels like a life sentence, like a prophecy, and even though she knows it's true, knows she's never going to be the type of person who would be able to walk away from a job half-finished any more than her mother is, knows she doesn't really want to be, instinctively Leslie bristles against it all the same, mutters half to herself. "Maybe it should be."

Her mother tilts her head and looks over at her with an assessing eye, raises one eloquent eyebrow in inquiry. "This has something to do with that man over there, doesn't it?"

Leslie doesn't say anything. Right now she doesn't want to hear what her mother thinks she should do.

But to her surprise, for once Marlene doesn't offer any advice or opinions, just looks over at Ben for a very long time and then finally says, "Your father would have liked him. He would have liked the way he looks at you."

**[]**

Ben takes her back to her hotel after they leave the cemetery. There's an impromptu wake happening at the bowling alley where her father played his league matches and Leslie pulls out a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt in bright green color she thinks her father would have liked more than black, intending to get changed and go over.

Only she's so tired.

She toes off her shoes and slumps down on the bed. Hands braced on either side of her, staring straight ahead into nothingness.

It's over. It's done.

She's planned a funeral.

She's buried her father.

She feels like she should feel something. Should feel more. More grief, more loss, more completion or resolution or sadness or anger or anything really.

And instead all she feels is bone-achingly, soul-crushingly tired and completely at sea.

"Hey," Ben whispers, coming over to sit beside her on the bed.

Instinctively Leslie slips her hand into his, and drops her head to his shoulder. "Hey."

They don't say anything else. Just sit there. Then Leslie closes her eyes, and turns her head to press her face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in on a shuddering inhale. Just taking in the fact that he's here with her right now, reveling in the closeness the physical connection to someone.

Ben brings his free hand up and combs it through her hair, carding his fingers through the strands until he meets the pins holding up her chignon. One by one he starts to slip them free, undoing her, messing her up. And with every pin he removes, every curl that comes loose, it like he's taking away little of the rigid control she's been using to hold herself together for the last few days. Until her hair is unbound, and her composure is gone and quietly, silently she starts to cry.

There's a shift on the mattress as Ben moves a little, and she can feel his body start to draw away, instinctively clutches at him harder.

"Shhh, it's okay, I'm not going anywhere, just- just here-" and then he's scooting behind her on the bed and pulling her to him, letting her curl around him like a small child—arms looped around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, legs tangled together with his, until she feels like she doesn't know where she stops and he begins.

It's a nice feeling, and for the first time since her phone rang on Saturday she doesn't feel quite so lost, quite so untethered. She lowers her hand and undoes two of the buttons on his shirt, slipping her hand underneath it to press her palm over his heart. The steady beat, the warm life of him makes her think about her father again, about how impermanent everything can suddenly become. About time she didn't have and things she never said and how she'd give anything to change that.

"I love you."

She says it quietly, softly, but loud enough that she knows Ben can hear it, feels it in the hop-step of his heartbeat under her fingers, the way the muscles of his throat shift as he swallows. And she knows he's trying to figure out how to respond, what to say to the grief-stricken, crazy woman curled around him, continues before he can. "Don't- Don't say anything please. I just- I love you. I don't think I ever actually stopped. And I know that maybe it's not fair to tell you right now. That it doesn't really change anything. It's all right, I don't expect it to. But I just, whatever happens, I needed you to know that."

Ben doesn't say anything for a beat, just lays there with her, his fingers trailing through her hair. Finally, he says, "I have a lot of vacation stored up. If you wanted, I could, I mean I'd like to-" he tilts her head up a little and brushes a kiss along her hairline, "Leslie, let me be here for you, okay?"

Maybe it's not an 'I love you, too,' but that's all right. She doesn't need it to be.

Not right now.

Right now she just needs him.

**[]**

The thing about losing a loved one that no one tells you. The part movies don't show and people don't usually write about. The dirty little secret of death in the modern world is that when someone close to you goes, when they've left you, they don't leave a void, they don't leave a hole or a gaping open space into which you can pour your grief.

They leave paperwork.

They leave releases you have to sign, and to-do lists you have to cross off, and hundred different decisions you have to make at the absolute last time anyone should expect you to make a decision about anything.

People die and they leave a mess behind.

And it's that mess, that wreckage, that grief comes. You sort through it. You catalog it. You stumble over a joy that had been misplaced. You uncover a hurt that had been left to rot. You go through piles upon piles of meaningless garbage and think it's all getting better and easier, until suddenly the stack shifts and you cut your heart on the hidden razor blade of some unanticipated memory and you're bleeding all over again.

People die and their stuff stays.

And someone has to clean it up.

**[]**

In the end the funeral turns out to be the easy part. The hard part comes after.

But that's the thing isn't it? The hard part always comes after.

All the rituals, all moments you think of as important, that you build up to—graduations and weddings and baby showers and funerals—they're just the signage, the landmarks that denote the beginning of the next leg, the start of something new. It's the hundreds of days that come after, the ordinary, everyday mess of traveling that new path that's difficult.

It's not winning the election, but being worthy of the vote.

Not saying 'I love you' for the first time, but figuring out what you'll give to say it thirty years from now.

Not burying your father, but learning to carry his memory without breaking under the weight.

**[]**

Ben goes with her to start packing up her father's house, and she knows putting her dad's affairs in order isn't going to be as simple as she'd hoped when it takes them half a day just to find the key to the safe deposit box.

Robert Knope lived in a small two-bedroom track home from the fifties located within walking distance of the high-school. It's crammed full of paper and books and old tools he never used and metal signs for places that closed down long ago. The kitchen has a hodge-podge of mismatched plates and plastic cups from the bowling alley, and more pans than one man could possibly need, particularly since there's almost nothing but takeout containers in the refrigerator and frozen dinners in the freezer.

But that was her father. He liked things, liked stuff. Liked garage sales, and trading posts, and the turkey pan he inherited from his mother even though he wouldn't know how to cook a turkey if his life depended on it. He has a box of math-team t-shirts dating back to 1979 in one closet and three boxes of college t-shirts from all over the country in another (_and she doesn't understand those until she stumbles across a photo album over a week later filled with group photos of graduating seniors posed in a patchwork of colors and mascots. Almost gets arrested when she tries to get the boxes back from the Goodwill and can't_).

He has financial papers going back ten years shoved into shoeboxes, and desk drawers and in one inexplicable instance an antique safe that doesn't lock. He has five full bookshelves lined up against a wall in the den, and another three in the spare bedroom (_at least she thinks it might still be the bedroom, she can't actually see a bed_).

Leslie pulls one down at random and turns it over to find a bar-code for the Vigo County Public Library on the back, a collection notice shoved into its pages.

It's twelve years overdue.

The realization makes her laugh, and then it hits her. All the stuff, all the things, all the paper and clutter and mess that made her feel safe when she never understood why.

It's was her dad's mess, her dad's memory. It was his desk that always spilled over and drove her mother insane, his stacks of books on the coffee table and his piles of newspapers in the garage.

God she is _so_Robert Knope's daughter.

Still holding the book, she sits down on the floor, drops her head to her knees. And even though she's never thought of herself as particularly religious, she feels like if there's a chance he can hear her, it would be here. It would be now. Among his books and his stuff, holding this small rebellion in her hands.

And there's so much she wants to say. So many things she never said or didn't say enough or said all the time, but she just needs to say again, that she can't seem to find the words for any of them. So eventually she stops trying, stops worrying about the language and the tense and the syntax, and just thinks about him.

Thinks about riding on her dad's shoulders at the Harvest Fesitval. Getting sick on too much cotton candy and kettle corn, and begging to do it all over again tomorrow. (_'I love you'_)

Thinks about sitting at the kitchen table as her father reads the comic strips out loud complete with voices, and her mother laughs in way Leslie had almost forgotten she could. (_'We miss you'_).

Thinks about standing at the top of the stairs the night before her high-school graduation listening to her parents talk through books and tuition and how they're going to split the cost of the surprise trip to D.C. they'll give her the next day and never once hearing 'it's too expensive' or 'I'm not paying for that'. (_'Thank you'_)

Thinks about going with him to her cousin's wedding in South Carolina seven years ago and watching him toast his godson with words too eloquent for someone who left his wife, and resolving if she ever got married she'd walk down the aisle alone. (_'I'm sorry'_).

Listens to Ben rummaging around in the spare bedroom, trying to make sense of her father's financial recordkeeping or lack thereof, and thinks about phone-calls she never made. (_'Daddy I'm in love with a boy. I think you would have liked him.'_)

**[]**

She's still sitting there when Ben emerges an hour later, shirt-sleeves rolled up, shoebox in hand. What had been one book has grown in to stacks. Paper-back mysteries and hardback biographies. There's old dime-store westerns and beaten-up, leather-bound classics like 'Treasure Island' and 'Tom Sawyer'. He's kept a copy of every text-book he's ever taught from, and she gets lost in the tiny chicken scratch of his handwritten notes about terms she's long since forgotten.

Ben comes over and sits down on the floor across from her using the side of the couch as a backrest. He nudges one of her feet with his own and she shifts her legs a little so his knee can slip between hers and hers between his, locking them together like puzzle pieces.

"How you doing?"

She hands him one of the biographies of Truman with a smile, "Read that."

Ben takes it and traces his finger until he finds the underlined quote, reads aloud "I learned that a great leader is a man who has the ability to get other people to do what they don't want to do and like it." Turns the book a little and reads her father's margin note, "Send this one to Leslie."

He looks up. "Did he?"

She shakes her head. "No, but there were others. There are at least ten in that book alone. I remember getting some of them."

"You should keep the ones that have writing in them."

"I think they all do. At least I haven't found one yet that doesn't. It's as if he used whatever he was reading like an appointment book. There's a telephone number in Treasure Island and a grocery list on the back-page of an Agatha Christie novel."

He laughs and turns to set the Truman biography up on the couch. "Well, keep this one at least. We'll have to sort through the others."

That makes her sigh and she leans her head back against the shelves to look up at her father's books. "I didn't think it would be this hard. Figuring out what to keep and what not to. It feels like I'm trying to decide what pieces of him are important."

"I know. But-" he leans forward to take one of her hands, "Try to think about it this way. You're not really keeping things. You're keeping memories. So you just need to choose whatever holds those memories for you."

"Like a pensieve."

Ben tilts his head in confusion then places the 'Harry Potter' reference and smiles. "Like a pensieve."

**[]**

Sunday morning rolls around without her realizing what day it is (_everything's started to blur together_). They're nowhere near anything resembling packed up, but Ben had the bright idea on Saturday to start fresh with the kitchen, which turns out to have far fewer memories and less difficult decisions. And there's something cathartic about scrubbing the refrigerator clean and dropping off boxes of canned goods at the food pantry, so it's all starting to feel a little less impossible.

She can't bring herself to sleep in her father's house yet, so they're still leaving every night to go back to the hotel. And every evening Ben walks her to her room and puts a different Jimmy Stewart movie from her father's dvd collection into his laptop and lets her fall asleep in his arms. And every morning they pretend it was an accident and he gets up to go shower and change in a room he hasn't slept-in in four days.

Except Sunday morning he doesn't get up so quickly, just lies there wrapping a strand of her hair idly around one finger, thinking. Leslie shifts a little, rolling onto her stomach so she can look up at him, and her hipbone scrapes one of the belt loops of his now thoroughly rumpled khakis. She frowns, "You need to stop sleeping in those, and you need to do laundry."

He quirks his lips. "About that-"

That grabs her attention, and for a second she thinks he's going to tell her this thing they're doing, this pretense has to stop, and she panics because she's not ready for it to, not yet. But his eyes aren't quite that serious and his hand is still playing absently with her hair, and she somehow manages not to assume the worst.

"Yeah?"

"I need to go back to Indy for a day or two. There are some meetings I couldn't reschedule because of the holiday."

That takes her a second and then she realizes Thanksgiving is this Thursday.

Thanksgiving when she drives up and back to Terra Haute in one day and eats omelets and pancakes on tv trays while watching 'It's Wonderful Life' and 'A Christmas Story'. Thanksgiving when she helps her father put up a twenty-year-old fake tree that looks every second of its age and puts on reindeer antlers and opens badly wrapped Christmas presents a month early.

Her dad's stupid, haphazard, perfectly, imperfect Thanksgiving that she'll never have again.

It's like a knife in her gut, and just that fast she's bleeding out.

Ben picks up on it immediately, sits up a little. "Leslie? Leslie, what is it? What did I say?"

She can't catch her breath enough to tell him.

"Okay, okay." He runs a hand up and down along her back, and brings them both to a sitting position so she can get more air, calm down a little. "This isn't about me leaving is it? Cause I was going to ask if you wanted to come or at least suggest you go back to Pawnee so you're not here by yourself."

Leslie shakes her head, takes a shuddering breath and then another. Finally finds her voice, "It's Thanksgiving on Thursday."

It doesn't take him more than a split second to put the pieces together. "And that was your Dad's holiday?"

She nods. "It was our Christmas, too."

"Do you want to go back to Pawnee?"

Leslie thinks about it for a few minutes trying to imagine the prototypical Thanksgiving with a turkey and all the trimmings around Ann and Greg's table. Tries to imagine going to the spa with her mother and her girlfriends. Tries to imagine something that doesn't include her father. Doesn't succeed.

She shrugs. "I don't know."

Ben thinks for a few minutes, hand still running up and down her back, finally offers, "Okay, how about we do this? Come back to Indy with me for a few days. I think it would do you good to get away from all this for a little while anyways. You can hang out with Diane and play with Harrison and start looking for a sublet for when the term starts. Then if you want to go home for Thanksgiving you do that and if you want to stay with me I'll cook you whatever you want and if you want to come back here and have your dad's Thanksgiving we can do that too. Whatever you want, we'll do. How does that sound?"

Leslie nods, "Yeah, that um, that sounds good."

**[]**

They drive to Indianapolis separately and between Ann and then Ben it's the first time she's been truly alone since she got the call about her father.

Leslie turns up the volume on her music and tries not to think about it too much. And the farther she gets from Terra-Haute the easier it becomes. Somewhere in the back of her head she can feel the sadness, the loss hiding there waiting to jump out at her when she least expects it, but for the moment she almost feels . . . normal.

Diane's waiting for them at the townhouse with Harrison and takeout Thai food that gets cold when Ben's dog demands at least an hour's worth of solid petting as payment for having been abandoned for so long. And when they all finally crowd around the table Diane immediately starts asking about the election and her plans for when the Assembly goes into session in January and how much money she can afford to spend for a sublet, and for three whole hours Leslie doesn't think about her father at all.

When she realizes that, it almost feels like a betrayal, but she tells herself her dad wouldn't have wanted her to live her life in stasis, and tries to think of it as a positive step.

Still that night, when she stands in the middle of Ben's too-silent guestroom, staring at the empty day-bed, all she can think is she's not ready for this.

There's the sound of water shutting off, then the sudden spill of light as Ben opens the door to the bathroom. Leslie moves to the doorway of the guestroom just as he's stepping out into the hallway and he freezes at the sight of her.

"Hey."

"Hey," she whispers back. Someday maybe they'll find a new way to start a conversation, but honestly she kind of hopes they don't.

"Can't sleep?"

She shakes her head, "Haven't tried yet. It's stupid. I know."

"No. It's not." Ben glances over at his bedroom at the end of the hall and then back down at where his hand is still on the bathroom door handle. And she can see him considering the question, trying to figure out what he wants to do. And it doesn't matter that they've been sleeping together for the past four nights, this is different. It's his house, his bed, and he's tousled and freshly showered and wearing pajamas for the first time in half a week and there's absolutely no way they could pretend this was anything other than exactly what it is.

And she feels horribly stupid and selfish for putting him in this position. Because he's given her so much, so willingly, she shouldn't be looking for more. Because it's probably time she starts to stand on her own two feet again.

So she lets him off hook and reaches out to shut her door with a quiet. "Good night, Ben Wyatt."

He looks up at her, and she can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed or both.

"Good night, Leslie Knope."

She closes the door. Stands there for a long time, listening for the sound of him walking back down the hall, the click of his bedroom door.

It doesn't come.

Instead she hears him move closer, sees the shadow of his feet in the sliver of light spilling through the crack at bottom of the door, and she puts her hand to the hollow pressboard, imagines him doing the same.

Finally after a long moment, he steps away, and Leslie goes to curl up on the bed.

A few minutes go by and the silence is just starting to crawl inside her head and feel oppressive, when there's a soft knock, and Ben's whispering, "Leslie?"

Getting up, she walks back over and opens the door part way to find him kneeling there with Harrison.

He looks up at her. "Hi. Sorry for bothering you, but Harrison wanted to know if he can sleep with you tonight."

God, she is so in love with this man.

**[]**

Coming with Ben to Indy proves to be a good decision. It's a practice run, a half-step back into the real world without the full immersion.

Leslie doesn't sleep well, but with Harrison at her feet she does sleep, and it feels like a kind of victory. And when she gets up the next morning to find Ben standing in the kitchen fully dressed in suit-coat and tie, drinking a cup of coffee as he scrolls through emails on his phone, there's only the smallest twinge of panic at the prospect of spending the morning alone with her thoughts.

It's actually kind of nice. Kind of normal. She walks Harrison and does a load of laundry and reads the papers for the first time in a week. It makes her realize how much she's missed, how far behind she is, and when Ben comes back that afternoon it's to find her sitting at the dining table, scratching out page after page of notes.

He sits down at the other end without a word and goes back to the unenviable task of trying to sort through her dad's financial records.

It's dark by the time they stop, and Leslie's so tired she feels like she's run a marathon. But it's not the hollowed out, empty tired that's been plaguing her, it's a good kind of tired, an accomplished kind. The kind she remembers from what feels like a lifetime ago.

And for the first time she thinks 'okay,' thinks 'I'll get through this.'

**[]**

On Tuesday Ben calls her around lunch, voice tinged with an excitement that almost approaches giddy. "Hey, what are you doing this afternoon?"

The question makes her laugh, because he asks it like she could possibly have something truly important going on even though they both know Madison is under strict instructions from Ann not to put a meeting on her schedule until after the holiday. "Well I'm supposed to go play fetch with Harrison in an hour."

"Yeah, blow him off."

"And why would I do that?"

"I have a surprise for you."

Idly she drags her finger through the circle of condensation her water-glass has left on the countertop, turning it into a heart, feels immediately silly and wipes it away with her hand. "With an offer like that how can I refuse?"

Ben picks her up around one and drives them back downtown, parking in his office's garage. And she's about to tease him about being a workaholic, when he takes her hand and turns right instead of left.

And suddenly she's standing at the steps of the Statehouse.

"You didn't."

Except he did.

"They're out of session right now. I made a few calls." he smiles that self-satisfied little boy smile at her incredulous delight, like he's just given her the world on a platinum chain.

And in a way he has.

"Come on, I'll give you a tour."

He takes her through the halls, showing her the clerk's office, legislative services, all the committee rooms. He's only familiar with the chairs of the committees with some tax or financial authority, but he does his best to tell her what he knows. Finally he leads up to the third floor and pushes open the door to the floor of House Chamber.

And even though she's seen it a couple of times from the gallery above, it's different walking onto floor, knowing she belongs here.

She belongs here.

Her. Leslie Knope, Deputy Director of Parks and Recreation for the City of Pawnee who eight years ago wanted nothing more than to turn a pit into a park.

_Mom? Dad? Look at your little girl now._

Ben takes both her hands in his and walks slowly backwards down the aisle stopping midway up the rows, pulls out one of the chairs. "Reserved for District Seventy-Three. Take a seat Madam Representative."

Leslie lets out a long breath. Runs her fingertips along the scarred grain of the wood, the cracked leather of the chair, memorizing it. Savoring it. Finally she closes her eyes and lowers herself into the seat. Her seat.

For next two years she will sit here and do her best to represent her people because she asked them to trust her and they said yes. And she can't think of anything better in the entire world.

And she realizes what she's thinking, how she's thinking. About herself, about her future, all the things she had before her father's death. They're still here. She still has them. She still wants to do them all.

She looks up at Ben perched on the corner of the next desk over, gazing down at her with so much pride and joy and something that maybe, just maybe, could be love.

"Thank you. For this. For everything really."

He smiles. "You're welcome. Always."

Maybe it's the fact she's sitting here and thinking about how she was just elected two-weeks ago and it seems like a lifetime. Or maybe it's the way he says 'always' when she's still not sure that's true. Or maybe it's the fact she really wants to kiss him and she doesn't know if she's allowed. Whatever it is, she's suddenly very conscious of the fact she's three days past the deadline.

And she's barely thought about any of it. Barely had a chance to catch her breath.

For a moment she considers not saying anything. Ben doesn't seem to be in any hurry to bring it up, and she thinks he'd probably let them continue in this strange half-relationship indefinitely if that was what she wanted.

The problem is she wants more.

And the problem is she hasn't had half a second to think about what she wants.

But with every second she's with him, every grand gesture and ordinary moment, she can feel herself falling harder, sinking deeper until it might scar her forever if she decides she can't give him what he wants, but it is absolutely going to kill if she goes on like this only to discover he doesn't want her at all.

"Hey where'd you go?"

She drops her head, not certain she can do this if she's looking at him. "We're past our deadline."

Ben sighs, and shakes his head. "Leslie, don't- don't worry about that right now."

"I don't have an answer for you."

"I know. I don't want you to." He reaches out and takes her hand, runs his thumb along the inside of her wrist, tracing the edge of his watch. "I think you need to get your feet back under you right now, and I think you need to be able to lean on people without feeling like you owe them anything. And I want you to keep feeling like you can lean on me. I don't want you to promise me something because you can't take another loss right now. And I don't want to ever have to wonder about why you gave me the answer you did. So I'm just- I'm here. No expectations, no strings attached. Okay?"

Leslie groans and drops her forehead to the back of his hand. It's the most wonderfully selfless thing anyone's ever done for her and she's about to ruin it by being horribly selfish.

Ben moves from the table to crouch down in front of her. "Leslie it's okay. I'm serious. You don't owe me anything."

She shakes her head, "It's not that. That's wonderful. You're wonderful." She groans again, "Too wonderful. And I'm an awful person."

"Okay I'm lost."

Leslie sits up, extracting her hands from his grasp so she can press the heels of her palms to her eyes. "I need to um, I need to ask you if you've made a decision."

That makes him go still for a moment, and looks down at where his hand is now resting against her knee for balance. "Ah."

Still he doesn't immediately break off physical contact, and that gives her hope.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to do this to you. Really I didn't. Not after- I wanted to be the one who asked you to say yes this time. But- I just- I think I want you come back to Terra-Haute with me for Thanksgiving and eat pancakes instead of Turkey and watch 'It's a Wonderful Life' and help me put up a tree in my father's house one last time. And if you think there's a chance that even if my answer's yes, yours is still going to be no. I need to know that now. I need to get some distance now or I won't-" She breaks off and sighs, "I'm so sorry, Ben."

He doesn't say anything for what feels like hours, but really might only be a few seconds. Finally without looking up, he murmurs, "It's not no."

"It's not?"

He shakes his head. "It's not even really a maybe."

She swallows, and hopes the process of elimination hasn't steered her wrong. "Does that mean it's a 'yes'?"

Ben wobbles his hand back and forth. "It's a potential yes. A qualified yes. Let's call it 'yes' with a caveat."

She didn't know it was possible to fly and fall all at the same time. "What's the caveat?"

He reaches out and takes both her hands with a sigh, runs his thumbs along her knuckles. "You're not the only one who didn't want to do it this way. I know what I did last time scared you. I know you felt like I was putting all the responsibility on you. And probably I was wrong to do it the way I did, but the fact was, still is, I can't commit to this without knowing you're committed in the same way. So the caveat is this—I can't be a convenient thing. I can't be the bonus prize that's nice to have but only if it works with everything else. I get a say in your life, your decisions, just the same way I'll give you a say in mine. And two-years from now when you sit down to decide if you're going to run again or seek different office or quit politics entirely and go climb Everest, you'll do it with me, we'll talk about what makes sense for us and we'll make that decision together. But this, us-" He looks up at her and puts a hand on her cheek, "We have to be the non-negotiable point. That's my caveat."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I know, it's kind of a big caveat." he whispers with a smile. Then gets serious again. "But I meant what I said earlier. I don't want you making any decisions about that right now. For the moment I'd still like it if you'd let me be here for you, however you need. And I don't want you to feel obligated or like you owe me anything, I just-" he brings his other hand up to her hair, tangling his fingers in the strands, and looks up at her, "Leslie, I'll do whatever you want right now, but let me take care of you, please?"

She smiles at him, swallowing back her tears, because she's cried too much this past week, and she's absolutely too happy to do it right now.

"What if I wanted was to kiss you right now? Just once?"

He blinks, splutters, "On the House Floor? Isn't that kind-of-"

But there's just the hint of a smile in his eyes, and his protests might not be a 'yes,' but they're definitely not a 'no,' and she's sitting on the floor of the Indiana State House and she feels like she can do anything.

So Leslie leans over in her chair and does it anyway. Presses her lips to his like a promise, like a vow. Soft and swift and sweet.

Ben lets her.


	8. Chapter 8

**NOTE**: R (Yeah this section got _somewhat _R. Um, I'm sorry? No but really if this is problem for you pm me and I'll try to write you a sanitized version)

* * *

><p>Leslie knows she's probably ready to go back to Pawnee when she stops wanting to sleep with Ben and instead finds herself wanting to <em>sleep<em> with him.

It hits her at the oddest, most ordinary moment.

Not on Wednesday night when they drive back to her father's house late in evening and she lays awake on the sofa-bed with Ben less than a foot away because while there is actually a bed in the spare-room it's still under a monstrous amount of junk and neither one of them has the energy to tackle it. Even in the darkness when she can't see any of her dad's stuff, there's something about the way the place smells—like aged paper and earl-grey tea and dust—like her father, like forgotten memories, and suddenly the floor of the Indiana State House feels very far away. So when she winds up talking about the last time she slept over in this house eight years ago, and Ben reaches across the space between them to take her hand, it's gentle and comforting and supportive, but it doesn't make her pulse race.

It doesn't happen on Thursday either. Thursday when she wakes up prepared to go through the motions of her dad's Thanksgiving like a private memorial service, and instead winds up in a celebration of all the laughter and joy and sometimes utter ridiculousness of his life.

They drag her dad's old Christmas tree out of the crawl space, and struggle for forty-five minutes to make it stand straight, finally resigning themselves to the perpetually sideways lean that only gets worse as they proceed to hang every single stupid teacher ornament her father ever got on its branches. When they're done they sit back on the couch and look over their handiwork. Ben pronounces the whole effect to be 'horrifying', but he does it with smiling eyes and a perfect deadpan that she knows would have made her dad laugh, so when she hits him with a couch pillow it's not very hard.

There's a moment as Ben puts the first set of pancakes and bacon in the pan while she's in the other room, and the whole house suddenly smells like the holidays, that she forgets that it's not her father at the stove. And when she remembers a split second later, the loss is sharp and new all over again, reaches in and grabs her by the throat, stealing her breath. But the pain is acute rather than chronic and by the time they bring their over-laden plates out to sit in front of the tv and watch Ralphie get told he'll shoot his eye out she's able to laugh in all the right places.

Okay, when she stretches out on the couch after dinner and Ben pulls her legs into his lap and they make sure George Bailey really does save the Old Building and Loan from Mr. Potter one more time, she might tear up a little bit but really you'd have to be a robot not to. (_Ben does not tear up, but he does hush her during the run on the bank, and his hand tightens a little on her calf, like if they don't give the moment their full attention it might not happen the way he remembers. And that is possibly the most endearing thing she's ever seen. But it doesn't make her want to jump him._)

The return of her Ben related sexual urges definitely does not happen on Friday, which proves to be the toughest day of the whole weekend when she finally gets up the courage to start clearing out her father's bedroom closet and boxing his clothes, only to stall out when she stumbles upon two shoeboxes labeled 'Leslie' tucked high on the shelf. And Ben comes in to find her cross-legged in the middle of her father's bed surrounded by birthday cards and school essays and newspaper clippings from the Pawnee Journal for everything up to and including a profile they did for her State-Assembly run. (_And the incongruity of access doesn't strike her until she pulls out an envelope with her mother's handwriting on it and she realizes whatever their problems her parents never stopped talking entirely, at least not about her._)

It doesn't even happen on Saturday when they load both cars to the gills and drive over to the Goodwill and with every box she hands off, every piece she gives away and doesn't second guess, she feels a little lighter, a little less burdened. And though there's a moment that evening as she stands in the middle of the increasingly empty house, surrounded by packed boxes and neatly organized papers and knows things are starting to draw to a close, knows this strangely chaste thing they've been doing will end with it, she forcibly shoves the thought aside, not quite ready to deal with all the implications of that. So when Ben lets her tug him down on the sofa bed, her only real desire is to curl up next to him and never have to leave.

No, instead it comes, of all times, on Sunday morning when she comes back from a walk to find Ben sitting at the kitchen table he's converted to a makeshift desk, surrounded by two neat stacks of well-labeled file folders, reviewing a spreadsheet of creditors and account balances on his laptop. And he's deep into whatever line of thought he's been chasing, so he doesn't look-up when she comes to stand in the kitchen doorway, maybe doesn't even realize she's there and for some reason the sight of him like that hits her like a lightning bolt.

It's no one thing really, instead it's a hundred little details. It's the intent expression on his face that means some problem has his entire focus. The slightly mussed quality of his hair that says he's run his hand through it one too many times. It's the olive-green sweater over the purple plaid flannel and the fact his color combinations still always skirt this side of awful. It's the sleeves he's pushed up so that she can see that slight line of muscle on his forearm. It's having his detergent on every piece of clothing she's wearing, and knowing exactly what his hair would smell like right now, because she's been using his shampoo ever since hers ran out. It's knowing that his body is still just the right side of skinny and his hips still slot perfectly between her thighs.

It's even the glasses.

Actually, bizarrely, it's _really_ the glasses. Not that she likes them. Because she's still not certain she does, but that she's grown used to them, to expect them. That she's realizing now that when she closes her eyes and pictures Ben working like this, when she has a fantasy about surprising him in his office, disrupting his train of thought, (_and let's be honest here she's been having these fantasies for months now so she's got a stockpile_), while the location might change, the circumstances, the situation, his reaction, they might all vary. Those glasses are there, somewhere. He's taken them off, he's put them on, she's dropped them in the trash can, whatever. What happens to them isn't important. The point is they're there. The point is he needs them.

The point is she stopped wanting any version of Ben but the one sitting in front of her, a long time ago.

And god does she want him right now.

Ben removes his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes and she has the overwhelming impulse to go over there and put them back on him. To pick them up off the table, climb into his lap, slip them back on his face, and tell him to look at her, to watch her. To have him know without a single doubt that she knows exactly which him she's with.

"Leslie?"

She blinks, comes back to the moment to find Ben looking at her, the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth telling her this is not the first time he's said her name.

"Sorry. Yeah?"

"You went off for a moment. Everything okay?"

Moving to the table, she picks up the glasses that have been occupying her thoughts and turns them over in her hands. "When did you start wearing these?"

"Um," Ben smiles in that way that says 'this is a weird question, but I'll play along,' "I don't know. Let's see, maybe two years ago. Why?"

She shrugs, "Just wondering."

"Well okay then," he reaches out to take them back, but she lifts her hands up out of reach without thinking. Ben huffs a laugh that's almost a sigh. Putting up with the crazy woman because she amuses him, but he's not entirely sure why. "Leslie, I kind of need them to read the screen."

"I know." And before she's even completely formed the intention, she's holding them up over her head and walking slowly backwards away from him with a taunting smile. "You should definitely come get them then."

"You can't be serious-" But he's standing up even as he's saying it, and her back hits the doorframe, and she spins away with a laugh and takes off. And he follows (_he always follows_) and it's a magnificent game of keep away.

They go round-about and back and through the main part of the house three times, Leslie laughing and Ben threatening her with dire consequences if they're broken. Circling round the coffee table, climbing over the couch. There's a moment where he almost has her in the kitchen, but she holds her hands up in surrender and he relaxes his guard, and she takes off again, unwilling to stop, trying to extend the moment for as long as possible. It feels like forever since she felt this untroubled, this free, since she just got to be in her own body, to enjoy being in her own body like this.

So when she finally gets caught against the door of the hall bathroom, Ben trapping her, arms on either side, she's already keyed up, aware, so aware of her heart-beat, the flex of her muscles, the rise and fall of her chest.

And she can feel that he's aware of her too.

Briefly, almost unconsciously, Ben's eyes flick down her body, and then back up to meet hers. "Hand them over."

He doesn't really think she's going to give in that easily, does he? Impulsively she raises her arms above her head in blatant invitation. "Make me."

And there's just a split second when it strikes her that they've been here before, done this before, and it didn't end well. And she's about to take it all back, to forfeit the game and grant him the victory as long as she gets to keep his smile when Ben throws a change-up.

He kisses her.

_Really_ kisses her.

Kisses her in a way that for once isn't a beginning or an end, but a middle. Isn't a question or an apology. Isn't a prelude or a goodbye. Isn't anything other than what it is. It's just a kiss. Simple and basic and wonderful. The kind of kiss any newly-minted couple might exchange, the kind they've never had before.

She could have this. He's told her she could have this, as much as she wants, as often as she wants. And all she has to give him is _her_, all of her, forever.

At the moment it feels like a bargain.

Leslie melts into it with a sigh even as she can feel Ben's hand coming up to tangle with hers above her head and rescue his glasses.

"No fair," she whines against his mouth, "Cheating."

"I like to think of it as using all resources at my disposal," Ben retorts. But even though victory is now his, he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to pull away. Just shifts his attention to that spot behind her ear she didn't even know existed before he found it, the hand that isn't holding his glasses slipping up under her oversized flannel to slide along the thin fabric of her tank.

He's got her well and thoroughly pinned against the door now, a full body-press—his hand on the small of her back, his knee between her legs, mouth working its way down the side of her neck in a way that's not so much an overture as it is the main act. There's no urgency to it, no build. It's lazy and unhurried and content. And clearly not intended to be anything more.

Except it's been _so_ long. So long since any man has touched her like this, and even longer since it's been Ben. And now that he is, she feels like she's _always_wanted it to be him, can't help the clutch of her hands on his shoulders trying to urge him on, or the instinctive roll of her hips as she starts moving towards something more. She shifts against him and can't stop the shuddering gasp against the curve of his neck as she hits just the right spot.

Ben lifts his head at the sound to look at her, and for a second she's afraid she's inadvertently shifted them into the wrong gear, tried to go too far too fast.

All her fears seem to be realized when he moves his hand off her waist, and Leslie lets out a little mewl of protest. But then he's turning the handle on the bathroom door, and backing her inside. And she's about to object to his choice of location when she remembers where she is.

As if reading her thoughts, Ben shuts the door behind them, blocking everything else out, closing her off in this space that's been completely taken over by them—their toiletries on the counter, the scent of his soap in the air, her toothbrush by the sink. Just them, only them.

Pressing her back against the door, he places a soft kiss to her temple. "Stay with me. Okay?"

She nods. Finds her voice. "Okay."

This time when he kisses her, the tempo is the same, (_it's still languid and unrushed, like they have all the time in the world_), but the tone has changed, turned sensual, savoring. No longer like he has nowhere to be, but simply that he wants to take his time getting there, see all the sights in between.

His free hand sweeps down her neck and along her collarbone, comes to a brief pause at the vee of her flannel, giving her a chance to stop him (_like she could, like she wants to_). Then one by one, he undoes the row of buttons, pausing repeatedly to run his knuckles along the line of her breast-bone in an almost soothing gesture that only seems to make her want him to touch more of her.

In an effort to coax him into more decisive action, she drops her hands to his hips and tugs a little at his belt loops, trying to pull him closer, but Ben stays stubbornly unmoving.

Still trying to urge him on, she shifts to reach for the button on his pants, but Ben stops her. Closing both hands over hers gently but firmly, he pulls her hands away and places his glasses in her palm with a quiet, "Hold on to these for me." And even though he places a soft kiss to the inside of each wrist to lessen the sting as he drapes her arms over his shoulders, the message is clear.

This is about her. _Only_ her. He'll give, but she can't take.

And the thought that he still needs to hold something of himself back like this makes her sad, almost makes her say stop. But then he's slipping a hand under the fabric of her tank, to stroke the line of her hip-bone in a way that's somehow generous and needy all at once, and brushing a quiet, "Let me take care of you," against her ear and the word 'no' disappears from her vocabulary.

God, what is it about him that turns her selfish, makes her grasping and greedy? She just wants him so badly, wants to keep him, hoard him, tuck pieces of him away in her pockets and carry him around. Wants anything he'll give her and then only seems to want more.

Still she feels like she's already taken so much, and given almost nothing in return. Like the least she can do is offer him the chance to change his mind.

"You don't-"

Ben swallows her protest with a kiss so infinitely tender it feels more like an act of grace, than passion. Cupping her face in both hands, thumbs stroking the lines of her cheekbones, he presses another to her forehead and whispers, "I want to." Drops a kiss on each eyelid and adds, "Let me do this for you, please?"

And even as he's saying it, his right hand has moved back to her hip, and he drags his fingers along her waistband, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath it like he's trying to tempt her (_like she's the one who would be granting the favor_). Until he reaches the button of her jeans and stops. Just stops.

"Leslie?"

Because 'yes' is too inadequate a response to this, and she wants to tell him how much she loves him, but she feels like she'd need the entire dictionary to even start and can't seem to form complex syllables anyways, she does the only thing she can.

She kisses him. Tries to pour everything into it, everything she feels, everything he's given her, all the joy and the strength and the love. All her want and her need and even her fear. Kisses him and says 'Thank you for coming back to me when I gave you every reason not to.' Kisses him and says 'Here I am—too independent, too scared, too ambitious—imperfect in every respect except in my desire to love you the way you deserve.'

Kisses him and says 'I've already asked for more than I have a right to, but give me just a little more time and I'll get there. I promise'

And she doesn't even realize she's crying until his thumb starts to brush the tears away, and for a moment she's afraid she's ruined the mood, but then she can feel his other hand work the button on her jeans free and the zipper down and she's reaching to help him push both her pants and underwear off her legs without breaking the kiss and they can't quite get the logistics, and they're both laughing against each other's mouths even as she can still feel the saltwater drying on her skin.

She finally manages the task and kicks them free, and Ben starts to drag his hand up the inside of her thigh with a tantalizing slowness that seems designed to pull her focus. Force it to coalesce on nothing more than the feel of his fingers inching towards her core. Breaking the kiss he lowers his gaze to watch the progress with a fascination she finds slightly unnerving, until he whispers, "Do you know how often I've imagined doing this?"

Like he's timed it, he reaches his destination as he finishes the question, punctuating it with a twist of his wrist that makes her see stars, and Leslie drops her back against the door with a groan, just barely manages to gasp out a response. "When we worked together?"

"At least once a day."

"Even at the beginning when I fought you?"

"Especially then."

And she wants to ask him more, but he's stroking her and teasing her, driving her higher and higher, and then backing off, prolonging the moment and she's starting to lose coherence.

As loathe as she is to admit it, there'd been a part of her that was half-afraid she'd built the physical part of their relationship up in her head. After all it had only been that one night and the emotion had been so incredibly heightened, and it isn't as though her prior frame of reference had set the bar that high. And she'd tried to prepare herself for the possibility that the reality wouldn't live up to the memory. Because honestly the sex with Brent had been very good. _Very_good. Particularly towards the end when he could play her body with the practiced ease of a maestro, had memorized every chord and note and rhythm that went into the symphony of her climax.

And it would be a disservice to Brent to say Ben exceeds him in technical ability, but god the potential is there. Because what he lacks in familiarity he makes up for in feeling. She can feel him watching her, sight-reading the nuances of her reactions with a deftness that tells her, given time, and the opportunity to practice, he could certainly match if not surpass any previous lover.

Her legs start to tremble beneath her, and she fumbles a little at the back of his neck, trying to hold on, stay upright. In response, Ben breaks off his ministrations and pulls her away from the door, walking her the two steps back to the bathroom counter, so he can lift her onto to it.

The move raises her up, so that she's now looking down at him, and for a second they just stare at each other. Then with a small embarrassed smile she gives in to the thought that had started this whole incredible sequence of events, unfolds the glasses she'd been entrusted with and slips them on his face with a quiet, "Hi."

"Hi." Ben responds, giving her a shy bemused look, not quite sure what's going on, and maybe just a little afraid he's being teased.

She runs her fingers through his hair in reassurance, holding his gaze. "I love you."

And she wants to keep repeating it over and over, until he gets it, understands what she's trying to say, that she knows which version of him she has, which one she's with, that there aren't any ghosts here. But she knows it still makes him uncomfortable to hear it when he won't reciprocate, so instead she kisses him swift and sweet and just a little bit dirty, pulls his hand back up her thigh, urging him to continue with the main event.

But shift in position has brought her breasts to near eye level, and Ben seems suddenly intent on making up for his previous neglect, runs his lips along the neckline of her tank and then mouths them a little through the fabric, even as he's pushing her flannel down her arms. And then he's pulling her tank over her head, and her fingers are scrabbling at the clasp of her bra, and suddenly she's completely nude save her multi-colored, knee-high wool socks, which have somehow remained on throughout this entire process, and the absurdity of that strikes her as incredibly funny.

"Want to let me in on the joke?"

She sticks her legs straight out on either side of him and waggles her feet. "Did your imagination ever include socks?"

He looks over his shoulder at the object of her amusement, then back at her and grins. "It will now."

That makes her laugh, and she bends over to shove them off, but Ben stops her with a hand on her ankle. "Leave them on."

"They're silly."

"I know. That's why I like them." And then he's bending her right leg so she can draw her knee up to her chest, like he wants to keep her rainbow socks in his sight-line. Sure enough when he's got her posed he runs his hand up the line of her calf, and drops a kiss on the top of her knee with a smile. "Perfect."

Leslie leans forward to rest her chin on her bent knee and wrinkles her nose at him, because honestly she can't imagine a less sexy picture than this. "You're insane."

And this should not be the moment that Ben chooses to level her world with a completely debauched kiss that makes her feel like some intoxicating courtesan rather than a middle-aged public-servant. But that's exactly what he does. Slides his fingers into her, curling them up in a way that makes her arch back a little, and tears his mouth away to whisper low and enticing against her ear, "Maybe that's because you drive me crazy."

Anytime, at any other moment it would sound completely ridiculous coming from his mouth, but he's working her body now with a focused intensity that makes her feel like he's trying to push her to the brink of madness with him, and just . . . _god_, she's so not laughing.

Ben keeps talking, pressing the words against the curve of her neck like he can't help himself, but doesn't really want her to hear. "You're still beautiful, you know. Still so completely breathtaking. God when I saw you talking to Diane-"

That makes her turn her head and capture his mouth before anything else can spill out, trying to let him keep his secrets. But he's still coaxing her higher, dragging her inexorably closer to the edge, and she can't make her body entirely obey her commands, so it's sloppy and unfocused, and then she's babbling things back, exchanging confession for confession.

"I love watching you work. I've had fantasies about interrupting you at your desk for months."

"Just months?"

"I didn't know what your office looked like before May."

The revelation that she's talking about his current workspace seems to make him lose his rhythm for a second, and the power of that makes her bold. Because maybe he won't let her touch him, but that doesn't mean she can't _reach_him, can't at least try to give him something in exchange for what he's giving her.

Leaning back a little she arches up into his hand, aware she's putting her entire body on display in a brightly lit bathroom in a way she's never been comfortable with before. But Ben's seen her at her lowest as well as her best and still calls her beautiful. He thinks her rainbow-colored socks are perfect, and tells her she's breathtaking like it terrifies him. And she wants him to know he's not the only one defenseless here.

So she opens her mouth and says things. Things she'd never say to anyone else, probably wouldn't even say to him if she thought he'd let her give him anything different. But he can't, and she knows why, knows it would make him too vulnerable, too needy, and she wants him to know that he's not, that in so many ways she's the needy one. And the only way to tell him is by actually telling him, so she swallows her inhibitions, opens her mouth and says things.

"You could have had me anytime you wanted, you know. From that first night in the hotel bar, you could have just taken me up to your room. I would have gone. All you ever had to do was lean over and kiss me. Slide your hand up my thigh. Say 'I want you'. Anything really, I would have been so easy."

And she doesn't mean to, but she can feel herself about to crash over the edge, and she's unconsciously spreading her legs even wider as she's talking, urging him on. And the next thing she knows her left leg which is still draped off the edge of counter-top is coming into contact with his hips, and whether it's the touch or her words or just the fact that he's stretched his control to the breaking-point, but suddenly Ben utters a guttural curse against her collarbone and presses himself against the flesh of her left thigh and she can feel him hard and wanting and desperate for her.

And she shatters.

When she comes back down it's to find Ben watching her, and even though she can feel how hard he still is against the side of her thigh, the look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

Slowly she becomes aware of the fact he's running his hand up and down her sock-clad calf like he's calming a skittish animal, and scowls a little. "You are way too fascinated by those."

"I like them. They're very you. Besides, if I remember right-" he brushes his thumb along the exposed back of her knee and then up her thigh, gives her an impishly satisfied smile when she immediately dissolves into nearly hysterical laughter, "Yup, still ridiculously ticklish afterwards. At least this way I can touch you."

And of course because he really is just a little bit evil, he then proceeds to touch her anyway, sweeps the fingers of his left hand down the line of her spine and laughs when she starts to giggle and squirm and curse him simultaneously.

"Stop it!"

"Nope. Sorry. Too much fun."

Okay, she was going to be good, but if he's playing dirty, she is too, and she really only has one weapon in her arsenal right now.

Grabbing him by the collar she pulls his mouth back to hers, hooks her leg around his hips and presses the entire length of her torso against his chest in blatant invitation. It seems to startle him into momentary inaction and for a second she almost forgets it's a tactic, but then he's moaning against her mouth, and his hands are flexing on her hips like he's fighting for control and she doesn't want to break him, just warn him.

She pulls back, gives him a little separation, and whispers, "Truce?"

Ben steps away even further, like he doesn't entirely trust her, and braces his hands on the counter. Shaking his head, he half-laughs, half-groans. "God, you're evil."

"You're one to talk." She retorts, then lets out a groan of her own as she sits up and feels a muscle in her back give a small twinge of protest. Automatically Ben's hand comes up and begins to massage the spot where her finger are, and she drops her forehead to his shoulder with a sigh, "I think I'm getting too old to be having sex anywhere other than a bed."

"Oh no, don't give up on me now, I have plans for you."

That makes her turn her head to look up at him. "You have plans?"

Ben looks over at her and smiles, suddenly a little guarded once again, but somehow still hopeful. "Let's say I have fantasies I'd like the opportunity to turn into plans."

Leslie closes her eyes, "Ben, I-"

"Shhh." He brings his hand up and runs it through her hair. "Don't- Don't second guess it. I'm not. Just let it be what it was."

The problem is she doesn't know precisely what it was. Just knows what she wants it to be, and that it isn't quite that. But she also knows it wasn't nothing, at least not for her, and suddenly she needs to hear him say it meant something to him, too. So she presses.

"What was it exactly?"

Ben grins, genuine and happy. Kisses her briefly before answering with one word:

"Wonderful."

**[]**

Ben draws her a bath and leaves her to relax and clean up (_because it's only nine-thirty in the morning and she went for her walk before taking a shower, and she really doesn't want to think about what she smells like right now_). She thinks it's also to give himself the opportunity for a little space, because he makes a self-deprecating comment about going outside to stand in the cold and think about baseball stats and there's a thread of truth behind the joke that makes her heart ache.

Leslie reaches for his soap instead of her body wash and lathers it up in her hands, trying to make her skin smell like him the way it usually would after sex, but of course it doesn't work. There are complexities missing, intangible base-notes of sweat and release, light top notes like the coffee he drinks and the herbs he cooks with that always seem to linger on the tips of his fingers (_it had taken her months to identify that one, and maybe it's a little obsessive that she worked so long to find it, but she likes knowing_).

She wishes he didn't feel the need to hold those last few piece of himself back like that. It's not that she doesn't understand, because she does. Without either one of them wanting it, they've somehow replicated almost the same situation as before. He's put himself out there, given her the power, the choice and all he can do is wait. But last time he gave everything, exposed the soft-underbelly of his feelings and stupidly trusted she wouldn't hurt him.

And she turned around and gutted him, slit him open and left him bleeding.

And it doesn't matter that she cried as she did it; you remain skittish of the thing that hurt you long after you've healed.

So if he needs to maintain this separation, to hold on to this one point of control, this one choice he has left to keep himself from being that vulnerable again, she can't begrudge it, not if it might keep him safe. Because more than anything, maybe even more than she wants Ben to love her, she wants to protect him, stop him from being hurt. She just hates that it still has to be from her.

And of course none of that stops the selfish parts of her from wishing she could touch him anyway. She almost aches with how much she wants to touch him, wants to fit her fingers along his ribcage, run her mouth down the line of his spine. It's a desire that is simultaneously blisteringly sexual and not sexual at all. In some ways it's oddly chaste. She wants to stretch him out on her bed and line up their bodies point by point (_fingertips, elbows, chests, hipbones, knees_) and show him just how perfectly they fit, wants to curl up around him like a shield and press her lips to the nape of his neck and listen to his breathing as he falls asleep in her arms rather than the other way around. She wants him to be safe with her.

It strikes her that she's been imagining him in her bed at home in Pawnee, complete with its sunshine yellow sheets and Amish quilts, and half read reports she sometimes leaves on the foot of the left side because if she put them on the floor they'll just fade into all the other unread reports never to be heard from again. And she supposes that makes sense because she still doesn't know what his bedroom looks like, couldn't conjure the color of his sheets or the angle of sunlight. But it's more than that she thinks, in some ways Leslie thinks she just likes the idea of him in her bed.

Which is actually a little odd for her. Because she's never been a huge fan of bringing lovers home. Mostly because she used to worry about cleaning up for them, but even later in life as she's adopted an attitude that goes something like 'screw it, it's my house,' there's always that initial moment when she can feel them reassessing their opinion of her.

Even with Brent who spent more than his share of weekends there it had never been a truly comfortable thing. Brent liked clean lines and big open spaces and muted colors, and there was always that feeling when he sat at her kitchen table and drank his coffee out of a chipped souvenir mug from the Snow Globe museum rather than one from his set of hand-thrown stoneware, that he was a stranger in a strange land, observing the local customs because it was the polite thing to do but anxious to get back to the familiarity of his native home.

And it's not as though she's met a kindred pack-rat in Ben. Because god knows she hasn't. If anything, his home (other than his kitchen) is almost spare, like he lived so long on the road he forgets that he can keep things now. But there's something about it, something in the way the furniture doesn't quite match, and the chairs at his dining room table have been acquired piecemeal and then painted the same color to try to create the illusion of unity. Something in the way the photographs on his walls are all full color rather than the black and white that's so popular and there's an old C-3PO action figure sitting on the corner of the desk in the spare bedroom. It's a little haphazard, a little uncoordinated, and she thinks while all his coffee mugs might match (_they do, she's checked_), it's more likely a product of expediency then aesthetic choice.

Leslie tries to remember if Ben had a moment on Election Day when he stood in her foyer and stared at the clutter, but can't. And she's not entirely sure that means there wasn't one (_because god knows there was enough going on to keep her distracted_), but if it happened it didn't linger long.

And then she realizes what she's doing, unconsciously assessing the compatibility of their everyday lives, how they'd fit each other on a regular basis, and nearly has a panic attack. Sits straight up in the rapidly cooling water, goosebumps crawling up her skin, and hugs her knees to her chest, suddenly feeling strangely vulnerable and exposed.

God what is she doing? This is crazy. She's never lived with someone. Okay yes, there were obviously roommates in college and a truly disastrous apartment situation for the first two years of her professional career, but the moment she could afford to have her own place, she did and never looked back. And however you parse it, a lover is not a roommate. Living with someone like that is intimate, exposing; you twine your stuff, your habits, your lives together until they become nearly impossible to separate. Until no matter what happens, when it ends, _if_ it ends (_she's got to learn to stop thinking of relationships as intrinsically finite things_), what you're left with in the after is fundamentally different from what you had before.

She thinks about her mother's handwriting on that envelope of clippings, and her father sitting at their kitchen table the night of her graduation. Thinks about the passage in Robert Knopes' will leaving Marlene his copies of Shakespeare and a small lump sum for "_the trip to London I never gave you_" and realizes sometimes you twine your lives together so tightly they simply can't be entirely separated ever again.

The idea of knotting herself up with Ben like that is simultaneously the most terrifying and wonderful thing in the world. Because for the past week she's had a taste, a sampling, and she loves it. Loves the feel of him beside her at night and the sight of his toiletries perfectly lined up on the other side of the sink away from her chaos. Loves coming back from her morning walk to the sight of him dressed and freshly showered, and the random things you laugh about that would never be funny in the retelling, but are hysterical when experienced together.

But she also knows it's artificial because this isn't her house or his and they're both in a strange way still acting like guests on their best behavior. And she doesn't even have a point of reference to know where the pitfalls and problems and spots of friction would be.

She needs more practice, more training, needs a trial run. She's a novice at this, an amateur. You don't do things this way. Really who does things this way? This is no way to conduct a life, just wake up one morning and realize you're desperately in love with someone and from here on out at least a portion of your self-worth might hinge on being able to make them happy and say 'it's okay, I have absolutely no discernable skills in this area, I'll just pick it up as I go.'

If this was a job and Ben was reading her resume for it, he'd never even give her the interview (_and it doesn't matter that Leslie herself would probably argue for passion and commitment over experience, it's Ben's happiness at issue here_). And yet he's already offered her the position, and he talks about 'two-years from now' like he's ready to put her under contract, and she can't help feeling like she's tricked him somehow.

Because what if she gets it wrong? Messes it up. What if she says yes and commits and throws herself into it, but can't get the details right? What if she repeats her mother's mistakes or makes new ones or decides three years from now they weren't mistakes at all? What if for all her passion and enthusiasm her execution is sloppy?

She wishes she had a blueprint or an instruction manual. Wishes this was something she could read up on, could outline and color-code and organize, because she knows how to do that. She's good at that.

But how do you even start making a checklist on the right way to love someone?

**[]**

Ben isn't surprised or upset when she starts talking about going back to Pawnee over a late breakfast of pastries he ran down to the local coffee shop for (_the walk in thirty-five degree weather was apparently his version of a cold shower_). Just nods in agreement like he thinks it's a good idea, and tells her he's put copies of the financial spreadsheets on a thumb drive for her in a way that says this was entirely expected.

Which when she thinks about it, it probably was. She's already pushing the boundaries of how long she can disconnect from her other obligations without things starting to slip through the cracks. Madison's been calling her more and more frequently with each passing day, and Ben told her from the beginning that he needed to be in Indy for meetings this coming week, and she supposes there was a kind of tacit understanding in the fact they took both cars back to Terra-Haute that she wouldn't be returning with him tonight.

That makes her pause, and briefly she wonders if he would have kissed her like he did if she'd stolen his glasses on Saturday instead, if he hadn't known they'd be going their separate ways at the end of the day. When he leans over her to walk her briefly through her father's financial picture and the steps she'll have to take to start transferring assets, there's a frission of something electric between them that hasn't been there since the night of her election, and Ben seems a little apologetic for it (_like it's inappropriate for him to want her right now_), and she thinks 'no' he probably wouldn't have kissed her on Saturday after all.

Still when he helps her pack her car with a few boxes of her father's things, and lock up the house (_she'll have to come back in the next few weeks to have it appraised_), he does it with a smile. Kisses her on the forehead before she gets in the car and tells her to drive safely.

"The weather sites say there might be snow tonight. Call me when you get in, okay?"

She nods. Smiling a little at this ritual they've developed, the way it says 'I have a right to know you're safe,' and if she thinks about it, she wonders if that's when this thing between them really started again. With his watch on her wrist, and his tired midnight phone call to her cell. Tiny tacit acceptances of the other's claim.

That night she calls him from her house when she gets in, and chats about nothing as she cleans out spoiled milk and moldy takeout from her refrigerator. Mentions she's going to have to go out and pick something up from JJ's because there's no food in her kitchen, and Ben tells her to get eggs instead of waffles so she's at least had some protein today.

"Yes, because with all that cholesterol it's a much healthier option."

"Did you have anything for lunch?" he asks in a way that says he already knows the answer to this question.

She looks down at the counter top, like it's going to save her. "No."

"Well I happen to know you had two blueberry muffins and a hot chocolate this morning and nothing else. An all carbohydrate diet is not a viable option, you'll crash. If I thought you were actually worried about cholesterol, I'd tell you to get an egg-white omelet but honestly they're awful. At least this way there's a fifty-fifty chance you might actually do it."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up."

Ben just laughs, signs off with, "Get the eggs. And some fruit."

"Now you're definitely pushing your luck."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

She can and she will.

Leslie still gets the waffles. But she winds up feeling really guilty about it, and after five minutes of not being able to enjoy them the way she normally would, she orders a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of fruit. Curses Ben the entire time.

And she wonders if this is what being with someone in the long-term entails, letting them have a right to you in a hundred little ways, letting them mess up your life and your habits with their opinions, and loving them for caring even as you wish they would shut up.

She pops a section of apple in her mouth, savoring the crisp bite that tells her she's gotten one from the late harvest (_she always forgets how good fresh fruit tastes when it's in season_), and thinks maybe she could learn to live with fewer waffles and more fruit.

It's not much, but it feels like a step in the right direction.

**[]**

It is of course not as simple as waffles versus fruit (_if it was she'd be on his doorstep tomorrow_), and being back in Pawnee reminds her of that in a way that's almost visceral.

This place is her home.

It's always been her home.

Even now when she's packing up her office, and exchanging emails with Diane about potential sublets up in Indy (_between students and visiting professors her resources for temporary housing are amazing_), there's something comforting about knowing she'll still list the same address on her tax forms and return frequently for town-hall meetings. To know that when the Assembly is out of session she's going to come back to this house, and put food in her bird-feeders, and do program development for five different summer camps and three professional retreats from her kitchen table to help make ends meet (_One of these days her state is going to realize it can't keep paying its representatives like they're all still part-time officials with family farms and single person law practices and expect good government, but it hasn't yet_).

She's made her life here, become the person she is here. She walks down the streets and knows people's names, knows their stories, can map her own history in everything from the field where she broke her arm playing field hockey, to the classroom at the Rec Center where she learned to French kiss, to the site where the Harvest Festival still goes up every fall.

She can even stand in the stairwell where she fell in love with Ben if she wants to. It's only a fifteen minute drive and the hotel manager knows her by sight.

In some ways she feels like she is Pawnee. Like she's seeped into its corners and its cracks and had a hand in making it what it is, and maybe that's a little self-aggrandizing, except Pawnee seeped right back, twined itself around her heart and leaked into her veins, until she thinks if you cut her she'd bleed corn-syrup and chaos.

And it's not that she thinks Ben would demand she move. It's that she knows sooner or later somewhere down the road, one of them will have to in order to have the relationship they want, and she can remember the look in his eyes when she pointed out he wasn't asking her to come to South Bend with him, that certainty that if he made her choose between Pawnee and him, he'd lose. Remembers hating herself for the fact he was right.

And she's still not sure what a "Loving Ben Wyatt" checklist should look like, but she thinks step one is probably being ready to put her life on the table.

For the first time she can remember, Leslie wishes she didn't love Pawnee quite so much.

**[]**

The first week and a half she's back everyone is careful with her, almost too careful, like they're afraid of breaking her.

She hates it. It makes her feel oddly guilty for not being weaker, more fragile, for feeling like she's ready to get her hands dirty when everyone else seems to keep expecting her to burst into tears. Like somehow she isn't doing this right, isn't sad enough or hurt enough or broken enough. Like she's dishonoring her father's memory by being determined not to let his loss cripple her.

Even Ann, wonderful Ann, seems to be getting on her nerves, bringing her breakfast every morning and pointedly not asking about Ben (_when they both know she desperately wants to ask about Ben_), until Leslie's almost maintaining radio-silence on the issue out of sheer childish-stubbornness. Like a pout or a sulk, not saying anything because '_she started it_'. Like they're ten and giving each other the silent treatment on the playground. Except that's a horrible analogy because Ann is patient and forgiving and not giving her the silent treatment at all. And somehow, pettily, Leslie manages to find that irritating, too, because any other time of her life Ann would have called her on her bullshit by now.

She calls Ben up to complain about it on Friday afternoon when Madison backs down for the third time in as many days on something they both know she should have fought.

Ben answers the phone with a clipped 'I can't talk now. I'll call you back.' and hangs up on her.

It's the rudest someone's been to her all week, and she kind of loves him for it.

When he calls her back an hour later and starts to apologize for being so abrupt, she cuts him off.

"No, it's okay. You were working. Honestly it was kind of nice."

"Being hung up on?"

"Being treated like a rational adult."

"Ah."

And that's all she needs for the whole thing to come spilling out in a disconnected jumble of frustration and anger and tears because '_I do miss him. I do. But I hate crying like this. I want to get through one damn day without crying like this. Why can't I do that? What's wrong with that? You were okay with me being okay. Why can't they be?_'

Ben's quiet for a moment when she finishes, then softly says, "They want you to be okay, Leslie."

He doesn't mean it as a chastisement, but she's suddenly contrite, because of course he's right, and it's horrible of her to think any other way. She sighs, swipes at her tears (_god, when this is over she's going to investigate having her tear ducts surgically removed_). "I know. I just- I wish they wouldn't treat me like I was broken. It makes me feel like I should be. Like there's something wrong with me because I'm not. Why is it you're the only one who can treat me like I'm okay?"

"Because you weren't for awhile and I was the only one who was there while you got better."

That makes her sit down on the bottom of the steps. "Oh."

"Yeah. I'd love to tell you that I just know you that well, and I'd treat you this way no matter what, but honestly, if the positions were reversed I'd probably be following you around with a box of tissues and getting you pissed at me. So, you know, cut them some slack for caring."

"How much slack?"

"A lot of slack. Cut them a lot of slack."

She groans. "I don't know how long I can take this."

"Have you talked about it?"

"Not really."

"Can I ask why?"

"I'm tired of thinking about it so much. It feels like it's all I think about sometimes. I just want to do normal things, talk about happy things. Did you know Abigail said my name the other day? Well kind of, it was more like Leffie, but I'm counting it."

Ben does not take the bait. "I think you should talk about it with Ann. Ask her to come up with you when you go to sign the probate paperwork next Wednesday. I think it will help if she can be a part of it with you and see firsthand how you're handling it."

Leslie turns the idea over in her mind and realizes he's probably right. Realizes even moreso that she'd really like Ann to be there. Wants to show her best friend the house she spent parts of her teenage summers in, and tell her about finding the college t-shirts her dad's graduating seniors gave him as gifts. Nods silently in agreement, not thinking about the fact Ben can't see her.

"Got any suggestions for Madison?"

He laughs. "You could always pick a fight."

**[]**

She actually winds up doing both.

On Monday she purposely gets into a twelve round battle with Madison about whether or not her legislative agenda is ambitious enough, and somewhere around round five she can see the other woman get riled enough to forget to be careful, and somewhere around round eight, she can see it sink in with Madison that she's not fracturing under the pressure (_The remaining four rounds are just because half-way through Leslie convinces herself there's some merit to her position that they aren't being bold enough, even though she hadn't meant it when she started._)

Ann takes a little more convincing of her emotional stability (probably because she was there at Leslie's least stable).

On Wednesday they make the three hour drive back to Terra-Haute together, after Ann leaves Abigail with Ron and Tambarlee. (_Ann is not sure about this at all, but it was either them or Andy and April who still barely manage to take care of themselves. And it's only until Greg's school lets out and Tamberlee promises to lock Ron out of the house if he tries to teach Abigail to drink or whittle. And she'd do it too, so everything is fine. Probably. Maybe. Leslie really really hopes so. Ann just calls to check in a lot._) And on the drive up even though Leslie keeps determinedly talking about her father in cheerful positive tones, and Ann makes all the appropriate responses, she can feel her friend watching her like she's a bomb about to go off.

Which is really unfair, because Leslie thinks she's handling everything perfectly. Signs all the probate paperwork with a steady hand and makes rational inquiries about the expected timeline for the courts to put it through given the simplicity of her father's bequests. And greets the real-estate agent who's come to appraise the house with a warm handshake and a welcoming smile.

And then kicks her out fifteen minutes later when the woman calls the dark wood paneling in the den 'dated,' and the wall of built-in bookshelves 'problematic' and starts to talk about replacing the linoleum in the kitchen if they have a hope of selling it for a reasonable price.

For some reason this is the thing that makes Ann decide she's a real person again, and when Leslie turns back from almost forcibly shoving the woman out the door it's to find her best-friend staring up at her from the couch with wide 'can you believe that just happened' eyes.

"Ugh, Bitch."

Leslie exhales in relief. "Oh thank god. I thought it was just me."

"No. Definite bitch."

Coming over she flops down on the couch next to Ann, and looks over at the wall of empty bookshelves, "I like the built-ins."

"I think the paneling makes it feel cozy."

"And the linoleum is-" Leslie can't think of a word other than 'worn-out' and 'tragic', just shakes her head instead.

"Like I said, bitch."

"Definitely."

After a long, comfortable silence, where Leslie just slouches against Ann the way they used [to] after all night brainstorming sessions about Lot 48, she announces without really knowing why. "I don't think I'm going to sell the house. It doesn't make any sense. There's no demand right now, and the neighborhood is starting to go downhill and no one who buys it will love it enough."

She is aware that these are not really legitimate reasons for holding on to her father's house when there's still five years on the mortgage and she has no reason to ever need to live in Terra-Haute. But Ann nods like she's just made an extremely compelling argument. "I think that's a good idea. In fact I think it's such a good idea we should celebrate."

Leslie lifts her head hopefully, "Like with cake?"

"Like with alcohol."

Yeah okay, her way is better.

They drive over to the grocery store and get several pints of ice-cream and three bottles of wine (_they don't drink it all but they do seem to feel the need to sample all three for quality control_). And there was probably a time when this wouldn't result in both them getting blitzed, but between pregnancy and breast-feeding Ann hasn't had anything more to drink than a few sips of beer in over a year, and Leslie has been exceedingly careful with her public intake ever since the primaries and has never been a private drinker.

Long story short. They get pretty trashed.

Ann has to call Greg to tell him she can't come home tonight because 'the real-estate agent was a bitch,' which is kind of true, but the fact she can't actually pronounce 'real-estate agent' and winds up calling her 'house-lady' probably clues her husband in on the finer nuances of the situation. Luckily Greg isn't one of those dads who freaks out about the prospect of being left alone with his child for an extended period of time, so Ann seems to get away with it once she's promised to make it up to him with 'dirty things' (_she actually talks about the dirty things for awhile but Leslie covers her ears and sings 'Camp WamaPawnee We Love You' at the top of her lungs because she just doesn't need to know some things about the father of her god-daughter._)

Once Ann gets off the phone Leslie realizes she needs to call Ben. Because this is their thing, right? She needs to let him know she's still in Terra-Haute so he doesn't worry. Cause he would worry. He'd be cute and worry a lot and there would probably be little frown lines right between his eyes from worrying, and he'd make phone calls to the neighbors and the police about her, and maybe he'd drive down in the middle of the night to check she was okay. And that would actually be really hot, except she'd be in Terra-Haute and wouldn't get to enjoy the hotness, and yeah, okay she needs to call him.

Ann watches her fumble with the numbers on her phone with suspicious drunk eyes, "Why are you calling Ben?"

"I have to tell him where I am."

"Whhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?"

"Cause I love him."

This seems to satisfy Ann for the moment.

Finally she gets the phone to start ringing, and then Ben picks up with a cheerful, "Hey, how'd it go?"

Leslie bends over and yells at her phone where it sits on the coffee table, so she's sure he'll hear her. "I'm in Terra-Haute with Ann. And we're really drunk because the house-lady was a bitch, so I can't drive back to Pawnee. Ann's making it up to Greg with dirty things. I want to make it up to you with dirty things but you won't let me. When are you going to let me?"

Ben doesn't get a chance to respond because Ann covers her phone with a pillow and sits on it.

She looks up, "Why did you do that? He's going to worry."

Ann just stares at her for a second and then pokes her in the breast. Leslie feels like this violates some kind of rule of female solidarity, but she can't actually remember any of the rules of female solidarity right now. But she does know it hurts. A lot.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You're not telling me things! You-" Ann waggles her finger, loses her train of thought and then comes back to it, "You promised to tell me things! _All_Ben related things. Calling to tell him where you are and that you want to do dirty things to him are definitely Ben related things."

"You forgot that I love him." Leslie adds automatically, because that should probably be at the top of the list of anything Ben related, before remembering the list is what stopped her from finding out when Ben is going to let her do dirty things to him, so really the list sucks.

Ann goes to poke her again but her coordination is off so this time it's on Leslie's arm. It's still pretty annoying.

"Stop doing that!"

"Stop not telling me stuff!"

"I'm telling you stuff. I told you I love him."

For some reason that makes Ann flail so much she almost loses her balance. "You can't say that!"

"Why not?"

That question stymies Ann for the moment.

This is of course the point when Leslie's phone rings. It's Ben's ringtone, and for a second they just stare at each other. Then the phone goes off again, and like it's a starter pistol they move simultaneously to grab it off the coffee table, except Ann's cheating by being closer and still sitting on it, so she gets there first, holds it up and stumbles drunkenly to the middle of the room as she hits the answer key.

Immediately Ben's voice comes back over the speaker. "Is everything all-right over there?"

"Ann stole my phone," Leslie yells out, trying to do her best to warn him.

But she doesn't know if he actually hears, because Ann is already putting the phone to her ear and demanding, "What did you do to Leslie?"

She can't hear Ben's response, but Ann is obviously less than pleased with it, because she's shaking her head violently. "No. No. No. You did something. I can tell because she had speeches. Big speeches about you just wanting to be friends and how she was happy and wanted to kiss you and stuff. And now she's all 'I love him,' and- and glowy. What did you do? Did you sex her?" This would of course be the moment she chooses to look over at Leslie's face, and whatever's there makes her suck in an indignant breath. "Oh! You _sexed_her, didn't you?"

After a moment she lowers the phone from her ear and looks down at it in puzzlement. "He hung up. Rude."

"You're rude." Leslie shoots back, crossing her arms in a pout.

"Nuh uh." Ann shakes her head, "I'm the best-friend, he's just the guy who sexed you. Doesn't count."

It's really hard to argue with the logic of that.

Stumbling back over to the couch Ann flops down on the other end and nudges at Leslie with her toes, mouth curving in a little girl grin. "Was it good sex?"

Leslie can feel herself starting to flush hot at the memory, takes a healthy swig of her wine and nods.

"Does he have a nice penis?"

She almost chokes. "Ann Perkins! You're a mom!"

"I'm a drunk mom." Ann corrects her, like this excuses everything, nudges her again. "So does he?"

"I don't know. I mean he did."

Ann sits up straight, wide-eyed and alarmed, "Did something happen to it?"

It takes Leslie a moment to catch up. "Wha-? Oh God! No! Ew, no."

"Then why don't you know?"

"Because he didn't- um, you know-" Leslie trails off, makes vague gestures. Of what she's not entirely sure, but Ann seems to get the message, tilts her head in puzzlement and skepticism.

"I thought you said he sexed you good?"

That makes her sit up, a little indignant on Ben's behalf, determined to defend his prowess on this point. "He did. He sexed me very well. Really well." She points over the back of the couch, "In that bathroom. With his hands. He has nice hands."

Ann eyes go wide and she gets up on her knees to look at the door of the bathroom like she's never seen it before. Then because this apparently does not provide enough information, she stands and walks over to it.

Leslie follows. Don't ask her why.

When they're both standing inside and Leslie is pointedly looking anywhere but the bathroom counter, Ann asks. "He didn't do it on the toilet, did he?"

"Counter."

"Oh good. I have to pee."

Leslie goes back outside and closes the door.

Strangely this also closes out the Ben portion of their conversation for the evening. Looking back, Leslie's not entirely sure why, but it makes sense to both of them at the time.

They trip through a lot of half-thoughts after that. Including an incredible diatribe about Greg's inability to change diapers correctly, with an ode to his tongue close on its heels (_god Leslie is not going to be able to look him in the eye for weeks_).

Somewhere around midnight, the conversation slows, and without either of them noticing it slips its way into that quiet place where aided with the clarity of inebriation, you're able to hold painful truths up to the light and look at them for awhile.

Leslie drops her head back against the arm of the couch, glances around the den and sighs, "The paneling really is awful isn't it?"

Ann looks up at her from her spot on the floor and grimaces. "It makes the room feel dark and small."

"It _is_dark and small."

"It makes it worse."

"Yeah."

She sits with that for a little while, then adds, "I'm going to have to sell the house, aren't I?"

Ann nods. "Eventually."

"But not right now, right?"

"Nope."

"Good."

Later, Leslie curls up on her side and glares at the kitchen floor illuminated in the single strip of moonlight. "I hate that linoleum."

"How old is it?"

"I think it's older than me. I also think it might be a health code violation."

"Greg'll come up for a weekend and help you put in something inexpensive from the hardware store."

"He'd do that?"

Ann snorts. "If he wants sex ever again he will."

. . . .

"Ann?"

"Yeah?"

"The house-lady was still a bitch, right?"

"Definitely. Uber-bitch."

[]


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks: There are two people I need to thank here. First **laughingduchess** who had such an amazing hand in shaping the entire direction of this fic from the very beginning, and without her it would look nothing like what it does. And also **allthingsholy **who has been an amazing source of moral support and a genuinely wonderful critical eye that pushed me to give you all the very best version of this final part. Without either of them this would just be so much less.

* * *

><p>Leslie wakes up the next morning to the following email on her Blackberry:<p>

_Hey, funny story. Last night this crazy, drunk woman called me up to proposition me with dirty things then hung up before I could get more information on said 'dirty things'. And when I called back her friend yelled at me for 'sexing' her (is that even a word?). _

_Call me when you wake up, and I'll tell you all about it._

_-Ben_

_P.S. If you don't call I'll be forced to tell the story to Paul because it's too good not to share. Paul will then tell Diane. I think you see where this is going._

_P.P.S. Tell Ann I refuse to apologize for making you 'glowy'.__  
><em>

Oh God.

Oh God, she can't believe she did that. Leslie rubs a little at her temples trying to push back some of the pounding, and stares some more at the email on her phone, letting it pull the finer details of the conversation out of the cotton of her brain. Gets caught on the word 'sexing' and groans again.

Oh God she can't believe Ann did _that_.

She's not going to be able to look Ben in the eye for days. And she'd been so looking forward to seeing him on Saturday when she went up to look at sublets with Diane.

The thought of Diane makes her look down at the postscripts, and her eyes linger on the second one, on the affection and reassurance in it. Before she can let her embarrassment take over again she hits the key for her speed-dial.

Ben picks up on the third ring with an entirely too cheerful, "Good morning sunshine."

"Shut up," she mutters automatically, the hangover talking for her for a second.

He laughs, _actually _laughs, instinctively Leslie holds the phone away from her ear and scowls at it, then brings it back to chastise him. "This is not funny."

"Oh no, it is. It is in fact hilarious, and I don't intend to act like it's anything else."

"Ann _yelled _at you. A lot. You hung up on her."

"Yeah, but as far as I'm concerned I was being yelled at for good things, and I got propositioned which is pretty flattering. Besides before I hung up I got to find out all kinds of interesting tidbits about you, like the fact that apparently I make you 'glowy.' That alone could go to a guy's head." He drops his voice a little and asks in a soft, hopeful tone that makes her insides flip-flop, "Ann wasn't exaggerating about the 'glowy' part was she?"

Leslie feels her skin flush hot, her face splitting into a school-girl smile that even the hangover can't quell, and she has the stupid urge to twine her finger around a phone cord like a love-struck teenager. And yeah, she's probably extremely 'glowy' right now.

"No, probably not."

"Good. I like that."

There's a comfortable silence that she lets herself sink into like a warm bath for a few moments. Then Ben asks, "So I'm guessing things with Ann are pretty good now?"

"That, um, that depends."

"On what?"

"Were you really going to ask for more information about the 'dirty things' before Ann sat on my phone?"

Ben's silent for a beat then offers, "Let's say it's one of several responses I was considering."

She groans, "I'm going to _kill _her."

**[]**

Leslie doesn't kill Ann.

Mostly because it feels like too much effort.

Also because Ann is doing a pretty good job of trying to kill herself. Sometime between the moment she wakes up and the moment she gets out of the shower (_they're making do with a half-used bar of Ben's soap because it's all that's left in the house, but it's better than not showering at all_), Ann's 'Mom' guilt kicks in, and Leslie spends twenty minutes reassuring her friend that she is not going to have her parenting license revoked for consigning her daughter to another morning in the care of Ron Swanson.

This is not helped by the fact that when they call to check-in Ron actually answers the phone and tells Ann, "Your little girl has excellent taste," before handing it off to Tamberlee.

It turns out Abby's excellent taste has to do with her enjoyment of the sound of a jazz saxophone at naptime, but Ann is still not entirely reassured (_Leslie doesn't blame her_). So they're on the road back to Pawnee to rescue Abigail as soon as they put their hands on water, pain killers, and coffee.

As a consequence it's not until they're half an hour outside of Terra-Haute that the rest of the night's activities seem to register with Ann. But then they do, and she lifts her head from the passenger side window to look over at Leslie.

"Is it possible I yelled at Ben last night for having sex with you?"

Leslie bites her lip and nods, caught somewhere between adopting Ben's perspective that this is all pretty hilarious and dreading the follow up questions she knows will be coming now that Ann's sober. "Also for making me 'glowy.' He says he refuses to apologize for that, by the way."

That makes Ann let out a moan of embarrassment. "Oh god, I'm sorry." Then the rest seems to sink in and she breaks off to look over at her. "Wait you talked to him?"

"While you were in the shower."

"So he's okay? I didn't ruin anything."

She shakes her head. "Actually, he seems to think it was pretty funny."

"Oh. Good." Ann blows out a relieved breath.

Leslie starts the mental countdown.

Three.

Two.

On-

"What the hell are you doing having sex with Ben? What happened to just being friends?"

Yup, there it is.

Determinedly keeping her eyes fixed on the road both for traffic safety and maybe to avoid Ann's disapproving gaze, Leslie purses her lips. "Yeah, that's, um, that's kind of a long story."

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

She really doesn't.

Still before Leslie even gets a chance to figure out where to begin, Ann sits straight up and stares at her so hard, she can practically feel it burning a hole in Ann's sunglasses. "Oh my god. You said you loved him! Leslie Knope you were supposed to tell me before you went and fell back in love with him. How- When- Oh I _knew_ I shouldn't have let him stay when you were emotionally vulnerable like that."

"It wasn't like that."

The protest comes out sharper than she intends, a hard-edged snap that Ann doesn't deserve. But something about the implication that this might be artificial or reactionary on her part, or that Ben somehow took advantage, grates at her. Because she knows that's probably how it looks, is half-afraid that it might even look that way to Ben on some level. That some of his reticence comes from an inability to trust that she knows her own mind right now.

And maybe she doesn't. Her whole life is in flux in a way it's never been before. Everything—from her career, to her living situation, to her family, to her relationships—it's all in a state of massive upheaval. It's like tectonic plates shifting, forming new continents, reshaping her world and it will be months until she can draw a revised map. And every time she tries to think about the future her mind feels like it's spinning, like a compass that can't find North. How is she supposed to set a course that way?

Yet for all that, there are still things she knows, certain truths that haven't changed. Because you can flip the world upside down, you can make the sun rise in the west and set in the east, but that doesn't the change the fact it's the sun. And she might not know her mind, might not be able to point you north, but she can still see the sun and her heart is working just fine.

"It wasn't like that at all," she repeats, more softly this time.

Ann looks at her for a moment and then shakes her head. "You really did it, didn't you? All your big adult speeches and you just turned right around and fell in love with him anyway." Leslie feels her mouth start to curve in an involuntary, unrepentant smile, and Ann heaves a resigned sigh, "All right start at the beginning. And don't leave anything out. I want to know whose mouth did what when." She pauses then adds with a quizzical look, "Also, this is going to sound weird, but did something happen to his penis?"

"Ann Perkins! You kiss my god-daughter with that mouth."

**[]**

It takes a while for Leslie to get through the entire story, mainly because she keeps getting hung up on the details. It's the first time she's ever just talked about Ben. Engaged in the kind of eager recounting that's usually a part of any new relationship. She's never been a naturally secretive person. She wears her life on her sleeve—her joys, her sorrows, her accomplishments and her failures all out there for the world to see. But keeping Ben to herself had become such a force of habit, a knee-jerk reaction, the realization that there's no need to do that anymore leaves her slightly giddy.

And yes maybe she over-indulges just a little bit, but Ann isn't stopping her, and she doesn't want to leave a single thing out. She needs an outside perspective on this. She and Ben have already proven that they tend to put blinders on when it comes to the other. Maybe she's doing that now. Maybe she's overthinking this or not thinking about it enough. Maybe there's some really simple solution here, and she just can't see the forest for the trees.

Unfortunately the big picture is not the first thing Ann focuses on.

"Wait, so he wouldn't let you do anything to him? At _all_?"

"Well it's not like he wouldn't let me kiss him or anything, he just didn't want to, you know-"

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"Ugh, you're obsessed."

Ann lets out a half-hysterical giggle. "I'm sorry, it's just- This seems like important information to have. You don't buy a car without checking out what's under its hood and taking it for a test drive. Otherwise you might be stuck with a lemon."

"There is nothing wrong with what's under his hood, and he drives very well, and- You know what I'm done with this metaphor," she announces firmly, then completely undermines it by adding, "And Ben's not a lemon. If he's anything, he's like a Camry or a Civic or something."

Ann nearly chokes on her coffee. Coughs a little. "Sexy."

Leslie tries to glare at her, but since she can't actually take her eyes off the road it's a peripheral glare and not effective at all. "It is sexy. He's like one of those cars that you know is always going to start and you'll still have a hundred thousand miles from now. Just change its oil and it'll never let you down. That's totally sexy."

For a moment her friend just looks over at her in obvious disbelief. Then she drops her head to the passenger side window and half-laughs, half-groans. "Oh, you've got it bad."

Rolling her eyes, Leslie grumbles, "Yes, very bad. Could we please focus here?"

"Okay," Ann nods.

"Good."

Only, she doesn't say anything else and the silence stretches thin, until finally Leslie can't take it anymore. "Ann!"

"Right, focusing." She pauses, looks back over, "Nope, sorry, I don't know what I'm supposed to be focusing on."

"Did you not hear the part about his caveat?"

"Yeah, no, I did, and by the way that might be simultaneously the nerdiest and most romantic story I've ever heard. Not to mention the use of the word 'caveat'." She adds, doing little air quotes around the word to imbue it with maximum ridiculousness. "You guys really don't do anything normally, do you?"

Leslie sighs. "You could be taking this more seriously."

"Don't you think there's a possibility you're taking this too seriously?"

"No."

"Why not? I mean it's not like he's proposing." Then Ann blinks and looks over her with wide horrified eyes, "He's _not_ proposing is he?"

"No." Leslie shakes her head automatically, then stops shaking it. "At least-" Shakes it again, "No. He's definitely not proposing. But still-"

"Okay, so he's not proposing. Is he asking you to move in with him?"

She thinks about the fact Ben knows she's going up to look for a sublet and hasn't said a word about it, frowns a little. "Not right now at least."

"Then I'm confused. Ben obviously cares about you. It takes anyone with eyes and half a brain about three seconds to see that. And you dated Brent for two years and never once told me you loved him. But I can't get you to shut up about how you feel about Ben. All in all, it doesn't seem like a bad start to me."

"But that's just the thing. He's asking for way more than a start. He's talking about years down the road and having a say in my life and letting me have a say in his choices."

"And you don't want that?"

"My hang up isn't about whether I want it. It's about whether I can do it. I mean you know me. Can you honestly see me being happy living anywhere other than Pawnee?"

"Oh. Oh, sweetie."

"Yeah," Leslie exhales. "Oh."

Ann's silent for a minute, before asking, "But don't you think Ben knows that? I mean, if any guy ever had a reason to know exactly how much you love Pawnee. Don't you think it would be Ben?"

Her grip tightens a little bit on the steering wheel and she nods, swallowing back a lump in her throat. "I know he does. It's why he never asked me to come with him to South Bend. Because he knew I wouldn't say yes."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is it's not fair to ask him to give up his whole life for me when I'm not willing to do the same! He has a whole career up in Indy, and a house and friends and- and a _dog_. And there is not a single job he could take in Pawnee that wouldn't be a step backwards. I mean what is he going to do? Come back and be City Manager?"

"Why not? I bet he'd be a great one."

"Well, for one thing Chris still has that job. But even so, Ben oversees every city's budget in the state. He's like the City Manager's boss. He's like the _Mayor_'s boss. Why would he take a demotion like that?"

Ann just stares at her. "Seriously? You seriously can't think of a single reason."

"I mean besides me."

"Maybe he doesn't need another one."

"Now you sound like him."

"He's offered to move back?"

"No. I mean the first time around. When he offered to stay in Pawnee. He kept telling me that people do this. That they make compromises for other people. Like it wasn't a big deal that he was just prepared to throw his whole career away like that."

"Leslie did you ever think that maybe it wasn't as big a deal for him as it was for you?"

"But it should have been! And it should be now. I mean he's given his whole life to this, and look at everything he's done. That's not something you just throw away."

"No. That's not something _you_throw away."

Ann's overemphasis on the 'you' makes her blink, and she almost misses hitting the brake for a red-light, winds up stomping on it too hard so they're thrown forward and then back in a sharp angry motion. Finally, when they've come to a complete stop and caught their breath she turns her head to look over. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ann sighs. "Okay, usually this isn't something I'd say in an enclosed space without being able to use Abigail as a shield, so I'd like you to pretend I'm holding your god-daughter right now."

"What are you-"

"You can't keep expecting everyone else to have your dreams!"

Leslie jerks backward. "I don't-"

Ann cuts her off. "You do. You do it all the time. Remember when you tried to get me that part-time job with the City after Abigail was born even though I said I wanted to stay home for awhile? Or when you made a three page list for Tom about why he shouldn't leave government? Or when you tried to keep Andy and April from getting married because they hadn't put enough thought into it?"

"You agreed with me on that one."

"Yeah I did. And guess what? We both turned out to be wrong. Look, I know it's not intentional, and I know you mean well and you just want what's best for everyone. But Leslie sometimes you've got to trust that other people know what they're doing."

"But-"

"No! There are no buts in this. Ben's a grown man, a pretty smart grown man. You don't get to tell him what he's willing to do or what will make him happy. You get to tell him what you're willing to do and what will make you happy, and that's it. If Ben says moving back to Pawnee and working in the _sewage _department will make him happy, you trust that. If you can't at least do that, then- Well I don't know what to tell you. But I do know that's not a relationship."

For a second Leslie just gapes at her, then before she can regroup there's the sound of a car horn behind her and she swings her gaze back forward to discover the light has turned green. Fumbles to get the car moving again before she causes the people behind her to have a coronary (_and there's one guy who's leaning on his horn so much, she's a little worried that might have already happened_).

After that she drives for a few minutes in silence, digesting everything Ann just said. It's not the most flattering picture of her ever painted, but at the same time she can't deny the accuracy. After all didn't she do that with her father to a certain extent? Judge his life, his career, on the scales of her own desires? Assume that being a math teacher for forty years and never advancing was somehow a failure and not an accomplishment? Let that singular belief that he must have wanted more and didn't get it, color her entire perspective?

She doesn't want to repeat those mistakes. She feels like she owes it to her father not to keep repeating those mistakes.

Maybe she is guilty of assuming Ben wants the exact same things she does. That he'd only be happy if he had all the things that would make her happy. It's a curious thing to think that maybe he doesn't, that he might need something different. And even now she's not entirely sure that's true. They've always seemed so similar beneath their exteriors, like mirrored souls. Whatever Ann might say, she knows Ben believes in public-service the same way she does. It's just so hard picturing him doing anything else.

In the end, Leslie gets lost in her own thoughts for so long, she doesn't realize how her silence must appear until Ann speaks up again.

"Leslie? What I said- I didn't mean-"

She shakes her head and reaches across the gear-shift to squeeze her friend's hand in reassurance. "No. No, it's fine. I um, I probably needed to hear it. I don't really know what to do with it yet, but I probably needed to hear it."

Ann sighs, "Look, isn't this all kind of a moot point anyway? It's not like either one of you is going anywhere while you're in the State Assembly. Two years is a long time. A lot can change."

That makes her press her mouth in a thin line. Because honestly she'd been starting to think this way a little bit herself. Had been wondering whether maybe they were simply needlessly accelerating the issue, raising the stakes too high, too fast. And yet . . . She shrugs. "I don't know. But it's not a moot point. Not for Ben, at least."

"Yeah, I don't get that. You two can't just date like normal people?"

Out of force of habit, Leslie props her wrist on the steering wheel, so she can feel the metal of her watch press against her skin. Thinks of Ben, knowing he was buying it too soon and doing it anyway. Of how he'd never do that now. He's wonderful, and he's generous, but he's also exceedingly careful, overly deliberate. Like he's so scared of running too far ahead of her all over again, he's intentionally hobbled himself.

She doesn't know what would happen if she challenged that, if she offered less, but she's a little bit afraid he's bound himself up so tightly that unless she can cut through every restraint he still won't be able to move.

Sighing, she shakes her head. "No, we really can't."

**[]**

Except then somehow that's exactly what they kind of do.

It's not her doing. She doesn't even realize it's happening until they're in the middle of it. Ben certainly doesn't announce his intentions in any way. Just takes her out to dinner on Saturday night after she and Diane finish looking at apartments with all the fanfare of someone grabbing a burger.

Only they don't grab a burger.

Instead he brings her to a really nice restaurant, complete with a reservation. Nothing so formal that she's not comfortable in slacks, but still, it doesn't take more than a glance at the menu to tell this isn't a quick casual bite between friends. Ben orders a bottle of wine and the veal saltimbocca with an offhand 'you're not a vegan, right?' that makes her laugh at the memory of being his bad first-date Yoda. Feeds her things off his plate and steals things from hers, and it's somehow fresh and new and comfortable and old all at once.

And she tells herself she's not going to question it, not going to push for definition or clarification. Simply let him take the lead, let it be what it is. Except he helps her into her coat, and holds open the car door for her in the parking lot, and she can't remember the last time anyone did that, and say what you will about feminist independence, she still finds it unbelievably charming.

Which is probably not at all what she conveys when she stops short of getting in the car and levels him with a sharply assessing look.

"Is this a date?"

Ben ducks his head like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Looks back up at her with a crooked embarrassed smile. "Picked up on that, huh?"

"You're not that sneaky," she teases.

He laughs, bobs his head in a silent 'touché.' Then quiets and looks down at her. "So how am I doing so far?"

"You're doing very well," she whispers, unable to stop the full-fledged smile his grin automatically elicits from her, and for a second they just stay that way. But finally she breaks it off and looks down at her hands. "I just- I guess I'm confused."

"About?"

"I thought you were waiting on my answer."

Nodding, Ben props an elbow up on the top of the open car door, rubs a little at his forehead. "I am. And this doesn't change that. But-" he looks down at her and shakes his head almost bemused, "I realized earlier this week that I've never actually taken you out. And I guess it just- It seemed like a crime. You know?"

"I do."

"And-" he draws the word out a little. Exhales. "Well, I don't think we should stop spending time with each other while you make your decision. I mean I don't want to stop spending time with you."

She smiles at that. "Neither do I."

"Yeah, so that leaves us two options. One:" He holds up a gloved finger. "We could pretend we're still just friends and nothing's changed."

Almost as if compelled to demonstrate the absurdity of option one, he reaches out to trace that finger along her hairline, making her heart beat faster. Blowing out a shaky breath, she whispers, "Except it has."

"Except it has." Ben repeats softly, with a flicker of a smile. "So pretending like I'm not thinking about kissing you seems really dishonest."

"It does. And dishonesty is-" she loses her train of thought as he drops a knuckle under her chin to tilt her head up, comes back to it, "You know, not good. Honesty is better."

"That's what I thought. Which leaves option two."

"And this is option two?"

Instead of responding, Ben drops his head down to steal a quick kiss, pulls back just long enough to answer her with a whispered, "This is option two," before proceeding to kiss her again, more thoroughly. Her face is cold from the frost in the air and the faint heat of his body as he pulls her closer, the sensation of his warm breath on her skin, is all strangely heady. It makes her think of hot-chocolate after playing in the snow. The way the sweetness always tastes better for the contrast. That comforting sensation of being warmed up inside even as you can still feel the chill.

When he finally pulls away, she leaves her hands on the lapels of his coat and exhales slowly watching her breath frost in the air, savoring the moment.

"Not bad for a first kiss."

It's on the tip of her tongue to correct him, but when she meets his eyes she can see a thread of trepidation underlying the teasing twinkle. It makes her pause, and she realizes this is his way of handling things, of managing his expectations. But she likes the way he says 'first', the hope that it implies. Beginnings and possibilities and everything to come.

Briefly it flits through her mind that maybe, just maybe, this could be the last first kiss of her life, and she smiles.

"No. Not bad at all."

**[]**

So unsurprisingly, Leslie is a pretty big fan of option two.

In retrospect, maybe too big a fan.

It's just- It's nice. Creates a kind of balance over the next few weeks as she selects a place (_a small unfurnished studio just outside the Medical School campus that makes her feel a little bit like a graduate student, but has the advantage of being affordable and close_) and starts to move her stuff up to Indy. They're spending a lot of time together as Ben helps her settle in, get better acquainted with the city, and the dates set a framework for them to operate in that somehow acknowledges the unfortunate tightrope they're walking right now.

He doesn't kiss her in his home, in her apartment. It's an unwritten rule of his. Another restraint. Refraining from creating memories in any place he can't simply someday choose to avoid. But in public, when he takes her out—to dinner, to a movie, even ice-skating once—when he dates her, he is like any other guy courting a woman. Perhaps a little more old-fashioned about the pacing (_date three is unfortunately not the sex date_), but still.

The problem is it's too nice. Too simple. She likes it too much. Keeps putting off thinking about what's hard in favor of what's easy. Ben's trying to give her the time she needs, and she repays him by stealing the time she wants.

In her defense, she doesn't ignore the issue completely, she just doesn't necessarily like the answers she's coming up with. Because somewhere along the way of trying to imagine a future with Ben, she's started to think about her future in general again. Tripped across the truth that the place she's always been headed, that far off dream of running for Mayor is no longer quite so far off, is in fact the next logical step. And it should make her happy, that something like that is no longer a fantasy but a very real possibility no more than four to six years out. But all she can think about is all the doors it would close for Ben in the process and it makes something turn over in her gut.

And there's so many other things to think about from her legislative agenda, to her gift lists, to whether she'll ever be able to go ice-skating with Ben without making a fool of herself. And any one of them are better than that. So maybe she lets it drop a peg or two on her to-do list, and maybe she always finds something just a little bit more pressing, a little more immediate. She doesn't mean to. It just . . . happens. And it's so easy to let it happen.

Until she realizes she's starting to max out her credit.

But that doesn't hit her until the Thursday after Christmas when the Holidays have slowed down and the New Year is looming. The funny week in between celebrations that always simultaneously feels like a let down and a rev-up. When you know you haven't actually missed any opportunities, know January first is just another day, but for some reason it seems like time is running out.

Not right now though. Right now that's still a week away. Right now Christmas is coming and there are carols on the loudspeakers in every store and children waiting to meet Santa and she's shopping with Ben (_not a date, just friendly_) who is apparently a little bit of Christmas nut himself. And really who's going to willingly disrupt that kind of magic?

The Holidays fall on Sundays this year, and Ben's taking the entire next week off to head back to Patridge, and even though he obviously loves this holiday, there's a tension that's been building in him as December 25th inches closer. It's not overwhelming, not obvious, just a single stress point amidst his enjoyment. Still she can't help but wish she could take it away for him.

"Not looking forward to going back?" she asks impulsively, after standing in a boutique shop watching him look for something for his older sister's daughter for the last twenty minutes (_like the success of the entire holiday rests on it being right_).

Ben flashes her a tight smile and ignores the question, holding up a cashmere scarf in a pretty Robin's egg blue. "Would you want this if you were fifteen?"

"I'd want a phone."

He laughs. "Yeah, Caroline says I'm not allowed to buy Juliana anything tech related anymore. It makes things hard."

"Oh you're one of _those _uncles."

"I am."

"Shame on you. Trying to buy your niece's affection like that."

"Actually, the problem is more that I just keep buying her things I want to play with. But it's okay, Jackson's almost three and Lauren hasn't given me any rules yet. I have a whole new branch of the family to corrupt."

That makes her shake her head. "Watch out payback's a bitch."

"Yeah, but I think I'm safe on this front." And before she can even respond, his attention lands on a different display. "Purses. Girls like purses, right?"

Leslie just gapes at him, totally incredulous. "Who _are _you? Where's my beacon of fiscal responsibility? Shouldn't you be buying them a piggy bank or something?"

Ben nods. "Probably. And maybe I'll do that to. But-" He stops in front of a camel-colored hobo bag, tilts his head, "I had a lot of years where I couldn't buy Jessica much more than paper-dolls. Now I can and," he shrugs, "It's Christmas. It's the one time of the year when I get to watch them open their presents."

And she can tell that means something to him, that this whole process matters, getting exactly the right gift for his niece and nephew, for everyone. It's not that he's extravagant so much as it is that he simply looks at the cost last. He spent half an hour in the kitchen store considering an expensive new copper stock pot for his mother before settling on a reasonably priced serving platter instead because she wouldn't like the pot's upkeep.

There's a focus to it, an intensity, that makes her wonder whether there's something else going on here, whether he doesn't know how to go back home without an offering in hand. She approaches her original question from a different angle. "So you _are _looking forward to going back?"

Pausing, bag in hand, he slants his gaze over at her. "You're not giving up on this are you?"

"I'm trying to figure out how much alcohol to send in your care package."

That gets her an indulgent head shake. "You and Paul should coordinate or I'm going to be dead drunk the entire time."

Leslie smiles. "We are."

"Good lord. The two of you together. That's terrifying."

"Is it really that bad still?"

He shrugs. "The smaller the town, the longer the memories. Patridge is a _very _small town."

"But you still go."

"It's Christmas," Ben replies simply like that's the end of it, and she realizes with a shock that the idea of not going has never been a serious option to him. Seeming to realize this isn't as complete an explanation for her as it is for him he continues, "Remember I told you about how my mother used to insist we eat dinner together no matter what? _This_is dinner now. You don't mess with mom's Christmas."

"So you do this every year?"

He nods. "The whole family. Childhood bedrooms and live Christmas trees and unwrapping presents in your pajamas. Mom is probably making cookies for grandkids as we speak."

"It sounds like a Norman Rockwell painting," she says without thinking, and realizes a split second later it might have come out a little more derisive than she intended.

But Ben just smiles, completely unembarrassed by his family's extreme traditionalism, maybe even a little proud of it. "It's very Norman Rockwell. Norman Rockwell with big screen tvs and smartphones."

"So I shouldn't send alcohol?"

"No you should _definitely_ send it," he laughs, and gives her a conspiratorial look. "Norman Rockwell's only fun for about the first three days."

**[]**

Sure enough by the Thursday after Christmas when she calls him after getting back into Indy and picking Harrison up from the kennel she can hear the frayed edges in his voice, the threadbare patches in his good cheer.

"Hey."

"Hey," he murmurs back, tired and a little subdued. "You get Harrison okay?"

Leslie looks down at the animal now contentedly sharing Ben's couch with her, scratches behind his ears. "Yup."

"Thanks for agreeing to do that by the way."

"My pleasure. Besides since I have no cable I'm using your television for my CSPAN fix."

"Well you're welcome to stay if you want. Harrison will enjoy the company. Honestly I'm a little jealous."

It could be flirtatious, but it isn't. Instead it's just honest, and she thinks this time it _is_ her he's jealous of rather than Harrison. There's a riot of noise in the background, and a quiet "In a little bit, buddy" as Ben talks to someone else (_probably his nephew from the tone_), and Leslie almost winces in sympathy. It must be incredibly draining she thinks, fifty-one weeks out of the year he lives alone. Just him and Harrison, and suddenly he's thrust into a melee of people and children and chaos with barely a free second to himself. At least when she and her mother spend Christmas over at Ann's house, they always get to leave at the end of the day.

"How are you doing?" she asks quietly.

"Hmm?" he murmurs, distracted. She's only really got half his attention here.

"You sound tired. Everything okay?"

That's gets her a brief, brittle laugh, and a sigh. "Everything's um- I'm fine. I'm doing okay, it's just you know a little hectic."

But there's something he's not saying, and no, she thinks, no, everything is not okay.

"Ben-"

"Leslie-" He cuts her off. "Could you maybe just talk to me for a little while?"

It's a dodge, a feint, but it's such a simple request, she can't bring herself to say no. So she talks about nothing and everything. Talks about being nervous about the start of the session next week, about Abigail beginning to grasp the concept of wrapping paper but not necessarily presents. (_She still finds the box infinitely more fascinating than the toy_). She tells him Indiana is getting hit with some truly ugly sleet and asks how the weather is up there.

"We had a white Christmas. I helped Jackson build his first snowman. I'll send you pictures."

"Sounds nice."

"Yeah, I suppose it was."

But his voice doesn't match his words and there's that note again. That thread of something she can't quite put her finger on. She wishes she could see his face, read his body language. Determinedly she steers the conversation in another direction.

"I know I already told you, but I really do love my gift."

That gets him to perk up a bit. "Good. I'm glad. I was worried it was a little presumptuous. But Ann kept telling me I was okay, so-"

Leslie thinks of the framed set of photographs he left for her with Ann. Now leaning against the bare wall of her studio apartment—an old candid of her dragging her father through the 1983 Harvest Festival that she'd never seen before (_Ben apparently found the negative in a shoebox in her dad's spare-room_), and another of the two of them outside Lil' Sebastian's pen at the one in 2011. The Truman quote her father never got around to sending her etched on the glass below ("_A great leader . . . has the ability to get other people to do what they don't want to do and like it._") Her men together in one frame, letting her lead them.

So yeah, Ann lied. It is in fact incredibly presumptuous, but she likes that he presumed. Likes that for once, just once, he got ahead of himself. Likes what it says that Ann didn't stop him. It's part of what makes her happy just to look at it.

She smiles, "When in doubt trust Ann."

"I'll keep that in mind."

There's a slightly more comfortable silence now, and she feels good that she was able to distract Ben from whatever's bothering him, tries to keep it up. "So I'm trying to decide where to hang it, since I don't have an office."

"Is it in Indy or Pawnee."

"Indy for right now."

"Well that shouldn't be too hard. You don't have that many choices."

"Are you making fun of my apartment?"

"Absolutely."

"Hey on that stipend my options were limited. What else was I going to do?"

It's a tiny thing, the way he doesn't have an immediate response to that, the pause just a fraction too long to be entirely comfortable. And if she was still giving his question the amount of attention she had been, she would have caught it, would have tread more carefully.

But she doesn't, just keeps plowing ahead, telling him about the Parks department Christmas party that these days is made up of almost no one who still actually works in the Parks department (_Ron and April are still there, but both of them will protest they don't actually 'work'_), and how they should probably give it another name, but they never seem to. She tells him about Jerry's unfortunate encounter with spiked eggnog and Donna's dirty rendition of the 'Night Before Christmas' and doesn't pick up on the fact his laughter is just a little forced, his responses just a beat off time. Too focused on her mission to notice that she's no longer the solace.

Then a few minutes later she runs into it head on.

"Oh, by the way, I need you to mark your calendar."

"For what?"

"The state Inaugural party. Yeah, it's not a D.C. ball, but there will be drinking and dancing and ill-behaved politicians I think it could still be fun."

This time she does hear the pause. It would be impossible not to. Silence so gaping it could swallow her whole.

When Ben speaks his voice is thick and strange, carving the words out anew, turning them unfamiliar and rough-edged. "The Inaugural Party."

"Yeah," she murmurs softly, on guard now, aware she's inadvertently upset him but unable to see the contours of his frustration yet.

"That's what? End of January almost?"

"Yeah. What's wrong? Do you not want to go?"

He doesn't say anything for another long moment, then sighs heavy and resigned and not happy at all. "No. Yeah. Sure. I'll go. What's the date, again?"

You would think he was putting a root-canal on his calendar.

"We don't have to go. I mean, I have to, of course- but if you don't want to, I guess I can go alone-"

"Leslie-" he cuts her off, "I said I'd go, okay?"

Except he says it like this is some huge imposition she's forcing on him. And she's more than a little irritated with him for making it feel this way. This is kind of a big night for her, being a part of things at this level. What's so wrong about being excited to share this with him?

"Ben? What's wrong? Why are you suddenly upset with me?"

"I'm not-" he breaks off and she can practically hear him rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Look, can we talk about this later?"

"Just tell why you're acting like the idea of going with me is some kind of awful torture."

"Son-of-a-, it's not about that."

"Then what is it about? Because I'm lost. This is a huge deal for me. I thought you'd be happy to come or at least you know, not angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Well you're acting like it," she retorts too sharply, and Harrison lifts his head to look at her in a way that feels like a rebuke for speaking to his owner that way. Leslie turns her face away.

Ben exhales, and when he responds she can hear something's hardened in his tone, cemented itself in place. "All right fine, yeah, I'm a little angry."

"About _what_?"

"_Three_ weeks, Leslie? I'm making plans three weeks out, now?"

"Why wouldn't-" she breaks off halfway through the sentence, the picture coming sharply into focus.

"Yeah," he whispers, voice sour with unsurprised disappointment, "That's what I thought."

"Ben, wait- I didn't- Look maybe I got carried away. But I just- I want you to be there with me. Is that really so awful?"

"No. It's not awful. But it _is _a little irritating."

And even though she knows where he's going with this, can see the geography now, she still instinctively defends herself. Lets her own doubts, and irritations and even her guilt (_maybe especially her guilt_) arm her, and meets him thrust for thrust. "That I want to spend time with you? What's so irritating about that?"

"It's irritating to find out that I'm still going to be doing _this_ three weeks from now. But on the other-hand, I guess it's nice to know I've got three weeks now where I don't have wake up wondering if today is the day."

His voice goes flippant and trite on the last half. And the tone scrapes her nerves, makes her blood-pressure rise, and whatever guilt she'd felt about this a few seconds ago has pretty much evaporated. "Wait. You're the one who told me you wanted me to think about it. That you wanted me to take the time I needed to be certain."

"Yeah I know. But I thought you _were_ thinking about it."

"I _am_thinking about it. But it's not like this is some accounting problem I can solve in a finite period of time."

"Fine so you need more time. How much would you like? How long do you need me to wait, Leslie? Another eight months? Will that be enough this time?"

The reference to the last-time they did this hits her out left-field, makes her suck in a sharp shocked breath. And it's been so long (_five years and a parking lot ago_) since she's seen this part of him, this tiny cruel streak that only ever showed when he was really scared or truly hurting or both, that she'd forgotten it existed. Forgotten the way it lashed out and just how dirty it could fight.

She's up off the couch without even realizing she's moved, gesticulating to his empty living room. "Don't. You _don't_ get to be pissed at me for taking you at your word. I haven't asked for any of this. I didn't _want_ any of this. These were your ideas. Your stupid rules making it more complicated than it needs to be. All I want is to be with you. That simple."

"It's not- I can't believe you are being this willfully naïve," he fires back, and they're both almost yelling now voices tense and strained to breaking, and-

Shit. Shit, how did this get out of control so fast? She wishes she could just see him. Wishes she could reach out and touch him, hold him. She hates doing this through a phone line. Hates having to judge his reactions in silences and vocal nuance. Knowing they're both making it worse by missing each other's cues, and yet being unable to stop now that they're on this path. Still she forces herself to take a deep breath, calm down a little. Tries to make him see what she's saying not as a rejection but a plea.

"I'm not being naïve. I'm trying to be realistic. Ben, we're really just starting. You took me out on our first real date three weeks ago. And it was wonderful, and I don't want to fast forward through this part. For the first time we're in a place where we can really be together without complications. Why can't we just be happy for that for awhile, and deal with everything else when it comes?"

He silent for a moment and for a second she thinks she's gotten through to him, but then there's a quiet, "No," and then a firmer "No, I'm not doing this. I can't- I can't simply _date_you, Leslie. We're past that. We are so far-"

There's a sigh and a shift, and she thinks maybe he's stood or he's sat, but he's moved in some way, done something, because his voice has changed gone intent and focused like a lawyer delivering a summation, making a last ditch appeal. "Leslie, we're _not_ just starting. And I'm sorry we didn't follow the standard pattern and I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. But this is where we are, and I can't keep pretending we're anywhere else. I'm past the part where I learn your favorite foods or about your childhood. I know those things. I even know how you take your coffee and way you always start over with a fresh notepad when you've got a new idea. I'm beyond the point where taking you out on a Friday night and _hearing_ about your week is enough for me. I want to be a part of your week. And I thought you wanted that, too."

She feels something inside her soften at his words, because he's right. She does want that at least on some level. But . . . "That's not what you asked me."

It's the wrong response. She knows it's the wrong response the moment it's out of her mouth. Knows she should have tempered it, prefaced it with reassurance, but she didn't and his patience is already worn so thin.

He snaps.

"And that's really your problem, isn't it? You can't make that promise because you don't think you can keep it."

It's a precision strike, right for the jugular of the truth. It feels like he's caught her out, exposed her crime and what is it about that feeling that makes people lash out, makes them fight stupid and dirty, compound their sins and up their carnage. She doesn't know, but it's got hold of her now.

"No one can keep it," she retaliates, swinging desperate and wide. "It's like you want this iron-clad guarantee because you're so intent on not being hurt ever again. But no one can give you that- And asking for it is just setting us up for failure."

"Dammit Leslie that is such- You _do_this. You get exactly this far in relationships and no further. Everything's fine as long as no one has to actually give anything, as long as you don't get obligated. But at that first real complication, that first tangle in the line you just cut the cord. That's your solution. Every time."

"That's not fair."

"You dated Brent for two years knowing you were never going to marry him!"

"That was because of you! Because I loved _you_!"

He doesn't say anything. Just nothing. There's this long almost infinite silence, and then she hears something, a rustle, a shaky exhale, a change in his breathing that might or might not be the edge of tears.

"God I- I wish you would stop saying that," he sighs, suddenly sounding impossibly tired and lost. "I just- I hear that and I forget. Every time. I think we're already there. That we made it. And I don't understand- I never understood how-" He lets out this sound that might be a sob or a laugh or both, sucks in a harsh breath. "How do you love someone and not- How does a person say 'I love you, but not enough. Not enough to stay with you. Not enough to _deal_with you.' How does somebody do that? Say 'I love you and I'm giving up' all in the same breath? What kind of person loves like that?"

It's like he's flaying her alive. And yet strangely it doesn't feel like he means to. Doesn't feel like this is really about her at all anymore. Something about the shift to third person, the almost absent note in his voice, like he's forgotten exactly what they were talking about. Instead it seems like he's asking her a question he genuinely wants the answer to. Like he's facing a world he doesn't understand, and he's looking for a guide.

Harrison comes over and nudges her hand and she kneels down beside him. "Ben, please tell me what's going on up there."

"It's not-"

She presses her face into Harrison's fur, like a substitute, like somehow Ben might be able to feel that, and pleads, "Please, it's killing me not being able to help you. I know something's wrong. I could hear it in your voice the moment you picked up the phone, and all I've done is make it worse. Please Ben, let me try to be here for you."

He's silent for a moment coming to a decision, and then he whispers, so softly she almost doesn't catch it. "It's Lauren."

Leslie blinks at the mention of his younger sister. Because she wasn't expecting that, and yet now that he's said it- 'Yes' she thinks if it would be anyone it would be her. Tightly wound, type-A, too-perfect Lauren. Ben's bright, happy baby sister, who he thinks he tarnished by leaving her to live down his legacy alone while he ran off to college. Lauren for whom he has a protective streak a mile wide, and a guilt-complex three leagues deep.

"Scott left her. He just fucking left her," he continues, and Leslie barely has time to remember the name of Lauren's husband, before it's all coming out in a rush, a tidal wave of frustrated anger and utter powerlessness. How Scott walked out days before Christmas because he couldn't 'deal with her issues anymore'. How Lauren's convinced it's her fault, that she could have done something (_'Like some guys aren't just assholes'_). How Ben has no idea what to do for her, and he's the only one who even knows, because "Of course she didn't want to ruin Christmas, so she told everyone Scott was working a case and he absolutely couldn't get away. It wasn't until yesterday when Jackson wanted to call his dad to come help him build a snowman that she finally broke down and told me. And Jackson just kept asking, and-"

He takes a shuddering breath. "Leslie, he's three. How are we supposed to make him understand?"

It's the 'we' that kills her. That this isn't just his sister's pain for him, that he's taken it on, shouldered the burden. He talks about Lauren being convinced it's her fault like it's silly and yet, he's doing the same. He's blaming himself. He's living this. This is what's been eating at him since the moment he picked up the phone. This pain, this hurt. Amplifying his own fears. She's been talking about accepting the possibility of heartache in the abstract while he's living its devastation in real time, and it's amazing he didn't hang up on her.

"I don't know," she whispers softly, and then because somebody needs to look out for him and he's obviously not going to do it himself, she adds, "Ben, you have to get her to tell your parents. They'll want to know, and you can't do this all for her by yourself."

He doesn't respond to that. Instead he says, "I gave a toast at her wedding. You know, I honestly thought- I thought Scott loved her. That he'd be good for her."

And it's on the tip of Leslie's tongue to say that 'maybe he did,' and she stops herself just in time. Because she thinks she's beginning to get it a little more clearly.

Ben's a believer, from a family of believers. Believes in crazy, old-fashioned forever kind of love that society seems to think of as passé and naïve. Not because he's blind to its challenges but because he's seen its success, because his parents have been married for almost fifty years and his older sister for twenty. Because his friends are blissfully happy in separate states, and he wants a piece of that, believed, honestly believed, he could have it if he just worked hard enough, waited long enough.

She could kill Scott for shaking his faith.

She could kill herself while she's at it.

Instead she tries to offer him the best she's got, the only reassurance she can. "Ben-"

"Hm."

"I wouldn't leave you like that. Not- Not because I got tired of you or couldn't deal with you. If anything I worry you'll get tired of me. And I know it's not really what you're asking me for, but I just- I want you to know I wouldn't do that to you. Not like that."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, just absorbing her words, finally responds with a quiet, "Thank you for that."

But she can't really tell whether he believes her.

Still when they go to sign-off, he calls her back to him with a soft, "Leslie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd be honored to take you to the Inaugural Party. I should have said that first."

She nods even though he can't see her. "Thank you."

**[]**

That evening after they hang up she rattles around Ben's townhouse like a ghost, Harrison trailing after her. He's strangely subdued, so much so that she almost worries that she should take him to the vet, but nothing looks physically wrong and he eats the food she sets out for him with far more vigor than she attacks the Chinese she called for, so in the end she just thinks he's picking up on her mood.

Or he misses Ben.

Or maybe that's the same thing.

Despite Ben's care to reassure her about the Inaugural Party, their argument's left her shaken, scared. She feels like she's running out of time. Like she's letting this slip through her fingers all over again, and she doesn't quite know what to do about it. Worries that she's already messed it up. Or more precisely she worries they've messed it up.

Because as insane as it sounds they're fighting for the same thing this time, both reaching out with everything they have and yet they're still missing each other. It's like they've gone along all this time thinking they're building something together, only to discover they've been working from slightly different blueprints.

And they're only off by a quarter of an inch. But god that quarter of inch is everything.

Makes the whole structure unsound.

And maybe that's why she suddenly feels a little like an intruder, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome as she eats at his table and washes her dishes in his sink. But for some reason she can't bring herself to leave, doesn't want to leave.

She winds up going through his home like a wake, touching his things. Stands in the kitchen and pulls down his chef's knife, sets it out on a cutting board like it's waiting for him. Puts 'Return of the Jedi' in his Blu-Ray player and turns the volume up so she can hear it as she walks up the stairs. Notices a hamper on top of the washing machine and starts the load of laundry just to do it, just to wash his shirts once.

Pulls out a fresh towel and takes a shower in his bathroom. Starts to write 'I love you' on the fogged-over mirror with her finger, but remembers what he said and writes 'You're impossible' instead (_forgets it'll show up the next time he showers_).

Puts on the faded 'Lil' Sebastian' t-shirt she found in the dryer, walks to his bedroom door-

And stops.

Stands there forever staring at the wood-grain, the door handle, the half exposed frame that tells her the door's not entirely closed, that all she'd have to do would be to reach out and push.

And she can't. She just can't.

Not this. She can't take this.

Harrison has no such compunction (_after all it's his home, too_). Slipping around her legs, he nudges his head against the door moving it open, gets halfway inside and then stops, seemingly puzzled by Ben's absence.

Leslie's not paying much attention to that right now though. Instead she's looking, memorizing, filing pieces away like a dream she's determined to remember.

It's not a particularly unique room. But it is decidedly Ben's. Clean-lined sturdy furniture far enough out of date to have been bought second hand. Low bookcases in place of bedside tables with a magnetic charge strip for too much technology and good reading lamps. There's a padded headboard and gray flannel sheets that look like they might have cost him some money and a battered recliner in the corner that definitely didn't.

The thing that strikes her most however are the walls. In every other space he's left them the warm neutral sand color that probably came from the builder, but not here. Here he's painted, calm slate blue, crowded them with personal artifacts—photographs and shadowboxes and posters, even a hand-done sampler in the corner that looks completely out place, but she'd stake a year's salary on being from family.

It is, in short, as far from a hotel room as he could possibly make it.

Leslie takes a deep breath and tries not to think about the fact she has a quilt that would go perfectly with his sheets, that she can't believe she never thought of using bookshelves as bed tables to hold her reports. Reaches out to close the door.

From his spot just across the threshold, Harrison whines and looks up at her in a way that seems to say, _'What are you waiting for?'_

She honestly doesn't know anymore.

**[]**

Because being in Ben's house without him just feels too lonely, Leslie promises Harrison she'll come walk him in the morning and goes back to her apartment instead.

It's not any better.

If anything it's worse.

And it strikes her that Ben's place has become her home while she's in Indy. It's obvious from the way she hasn't made any effort to settle in. In the way she's still living out of boxes and staring at bare walls.

This . . .

This is just space.

Sometime around one in the morning she gives up on the sleep that obviously isn't coming and turns on the overhead light. Makes hot chocolate and curls up on the futon.

Stares at where Ben's gift leans against the opposite wall for a long time. At her father, at Ben. At both of them.

What was it her mother had said? _"All he'd ever wanted to do was teach math and be married to the woman down the hall who read Shakespeare out loud to her class."_

All he'd ever wanted . . .

She looks back at Ben. In that stupid gray t-shirt, pretending to marvel at a miniature horse he never understood and genuinely smiling all the same. Fingers the faded writing on that same t-shirt she's wearing now.

_"You don't get to tell him what he's willing to do or what will make him happy. You get to tell him what you're willing to do and what will make you happy, and that's it."_

Looks over at herself standing beside him, at the joy on her face and reaches out to pick up her watch from where she set it on the box she's been using as a side table. Holds it in her hand.

_"You know you're part of that, right? That having you- in my life- That I wouldn't be as happy if you weren't. You know that, right?"__  
><em>  
>And it's not that she wouldn't be happy again, but she knows it would always be less. Less than it could have been. Less than it should have been.<p>

So what are you willing to do, Leslie?

_"People do that all the time. Make adjustments, compromises, sacrifices, for someone else, because of someone else . . . People do this, Leslie."__  
><em>  
>She turns the watch over and stares at the "Go Big" on the back. Thinks about the first time she said that. How she wasn't talking about a Harvest Festival or a town or her career. She was talking about Andy and April. About people and love.<p>

Ready to take your own advice Leslie?

Restless, she gets up and moves. Comes to sit on the floor in front of the picture, and stares at the two of them together for what seems like an eternity. And then something happens.

She stops looking at the foreground and instead starts looking behind them. At all the other people, the couples sharing funnel cakes, and the grandparents with the 'handprint' t-shirts. At the little girl on her father's shoulder so she can get a better view. At the banners, and the smiles, and the color and the life. At Pawnee, at her very first and truest love so happy.

Happy because of what they did.

_"This is as much yours as it is mine. It's ours."_

They did that. Together.

Them.

Her ideas. His faith. Her vision. His execution.

They made that happen.

Maybe not her greatest achievement, but certainly her best.

And she didn't do it alone. It wouldn't have meant as much if she'd done it alone.

_"I get a say in your life, your decisions, just the same way I'll give you a say in mine."_

Okay. She thinks.

Touches her fingers to the frame and breathes.

Okay.

Getting up off the floor, Leslie goes over to the table, pulls out a stack of notecards and begins to write. All the things she is, all the things she wants. Things that matter and things that don't and things that matter but not too much. Pieces of her life sorted out on paper, until she has a stack almost half an inch thick. Goes through them slowly and lays them out. Stares at them for a minute, then picks up three, just three, walks over to her bare wall and sticks them up with a push pin one by one.

'Ann'

'Pawnee'

'Ben'

Three things she's not willing to give up. No one written bigger than the other, no one placed higher. Three equally non-negotiable points.

Turns back to look at the rest of her life. Still on the table. Inhales deeply and then breathes out.

All right then.

Time to get to work.

**[]**

Say what you will about Leslie. Say she's stubborn. Say she's ambitious. Say she can demand too much of her friends and even more of herself. Say she has a tendency to charge headfirst, and dig in her heels and it would take something close to an act of God to get her to admit she might be wrong when she thinks she's right.

But never say she doesn't know how to give it her all.

For the next thirty-six hours she eats, sleeps and breathes this.

She walks Harrison and runs potential futures by him. Just to have the excuse to hear them out loud. See how she likes the sound of them on her tongue.

Leverages her resources and calls Ann to ask about living with someone (_"There's going to be a night when they need you and you're tired. Drink coffee and get to it."_).

Then swallows her reservations, and calls Diane to ask about living without them (_"Other than phone sex? -All right, no, seriously. Remember it sucks for both of you and don't hang up in anger. Phones are too easy to put down and too hard to pick up . . . Also, I'd like it noted how I'm being good and not asking what this is about."_)

Goes through each of the note-cards on her table, and writes potential adjustments, problems, questions they'll need to answer. Things they'll need to talk about. Tries to anticipate all his possible answers and see if any one of them shakes her resolve, makes her take it off the table and add it to the wall.

And just when she thinks she's almost there. She's almost got it . . .

Ben shows up on her doorstep on New Year's Eve and throws a wrench in her plans.

You'd really think she'd be used to him doing that by now.

**[]**

'What are you doing here?'

This is actually the first thing that crosses her mind. Not, 'I'm so glad to see you' or 'I've missed you' or 'I desperately love you and I'm working on an elaborate multimedia presentation to convince you of this.' But 'What the _hell_ are you doing here?'

He is an entire day early. A whole, complete twenty four hours.

Which leads to her second thought: 'Why aren't you in Minnesota?'

Thankfully she doesn't actually give voice to either of these, mainly because Ben doesn't give her chance. Because no sooner has she opened the door than he is off and running, talking in a manic, rapid-fire clip that leaves her dizzy and spinning and barely able to catch her breath.

"You know this- This is the exact reason I wanted to just be friends with you," he opens without preamble as he steps past her into the apartment, pulling at his scarf. "I was fine when we were friends. I knew how to handle it. I mean sure sometimes I would look at you and think- But as long as I didn't cross that line, I was okay. Because I was on _that_ side of the line, because I had limits."

He tosses his scarf over the back of her kitchen chair and turns on her, "But then you go and you _kiss_ me. And it's like this switch goes off in my head, and that's it I'm done." Starts stripping off his gloves in aggravated jerk. "Every single limit, every reasonable expectation. Out the window." Drops them on the table, and advances on her, "I told you. I _told_you, that I don't have a halfway with you. I warned you about that, didn't I?"

Leslie nods, throat dry, uncertain where this is going. "You did. And I was just-"

She doesn't get the rest of the sentence out because he takes that one last step forward and then he's kissing her.

After that entire tirade, he's _kissing_her.

In her apartment.

While she's in her pajamas.

On what is decidedly not a date.

She is so confused.

What is going on? Why is he not in Minnesota? Why is he talking like a crazy person, like he's running on ten cups of coffee and no sleep? And why is he wearing a bowtie? And why? _Why_is he stopping?

"Ben, wha-?" she forces herself to catch her breath, and finally manages a complete sentence. "What are you doing?"

He looks down at her, expression strangely intent, eyes still a little wild, almost reckless. "I'm dating you."

"Oh no, you don't-"

Ben steps away, holding up a finger, "No see I've thought about this. A lot actually. I mean for the last I don't know twenty-four hours I pretty much haven't been able to think about anything else. And the thing is- I don't want to be that guy. That guy who just gives up because 'he can't deal.' Because really, what kind of person does that?" He shakes his head, still half stuck on his sister's divorce, then blows out a breath and looks over at her, resolved and determined, "I don't know. But it's not going to be me."

"It's not you. It was never you." Leslie rushes to reassure him, "Ben you're _not_ Scott in this."

"Exactly," he agrees taking an excited half-step forward like he thinks she's getting it now. "Exactly. Which is why I've been doing this all wrong. I keep giving you the lead, keep asking you to just tell me to jump. And I got so frustrated because I didn't understand why you just wouldn't. When it was obvious I wanted you to so badly- But of course you'd never do that. Not if you didn't think you could jump yourself. So I thought that meant-"

He runs a hand through his hair and turns away, and for a second she can see just a flash of remembered agony, but then he shakes it off, and spins back, starts up again from a completely different direction, criss-crossing the map of his thoughts in a crazy zig-zag she can just barely keep up with. "Look, you once told me I have too much faith in you, and I think you're right. Actually, no, scratch that, I think you're wrong I think _I_ have exactly the _right _amount of faith in you. But for some reason it's more than you think you deserve. For some reason, that I haven't figured out yet, and it took me forever to see it because I'm so used to the Leslie who believes she can do anything- But this, us, relationships, this is where you doubt yourself, this is one place you honestly don't know what you're capable of. And that's why I kept getting confused, I thought that because you thought you couldn't, it meant you didn't want to. But it doesn't, does it?"

And for the first time Leslie can see just the tiniest thread of trepidation, just a momentary flicker of uncertainty, and she instinctively has to soothe it, takes a step forward. "No it doesn't. I want to."

Ben smiles. A beautiful, slow blossoming, grin that's like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds, as the storm passes and the seas go calm. Whatever's been driving him, whatever wound him up and set him off, has suddenly uncoiled, smoothed out, and now he's Ben again steady and even keeled and deliberate. And yet, freer somehow, opened-up, like he's cut all ties, unfurled his sails and caught the wind. He nods. "See that's what I thought. So here's the thing-"

Stepping close he reaches out and cups her face, tilting it up to meet his gaze, and her breath catches at the certainty there. "I'm done waiting for you to ask me to jump," he whispers, "I'm done waiting for you to have enough faith in yourself for this. You don't need it. I've got you covered. So I'm going to go first, and all you have to do is follow, just have faith in me and trust that I am never going to lead you somewhere I don't know you can go. You believe in me and I'll believe in you and we'll be fine. Okay?"

And even though she was almost there, even though Leslie was ninety-five percent sure she had it, this right here right now, this is her last five percent. Because believing in him is so simple, so easy. Believing in Ben is like breathing, unconscious and instinctive. She already knows she can do that. She's been doing it for years.

Leslie nods, "Okay." Nods again. "Okay." Can't stop nodding. "Okay." And then she's kissing him over and over and still repeating the words against his lips, "Okay. Okay. Yes. Okay."

Her hands land on the lapels of his overcoat, and the realization that Ben never actually got past taking off his gloves seems to hit them at the same moment, so they're laughing out of the kiss even as her hands are scrambling for his buttons. Because seriously she has waited _so_long for this, and then he's shrugging out of it and letting it drop to the floor and pressing her back against the wall, and her hands fly to his shoulders only to encounter the unexpected feel of wool-gabardine and she opens her eyes and-

"You're wearing a tuxedo."

Really she could kill herself for opening her mouth, because that makes Ben stop kissing her neck and step back to glance down at himself as if this fact had entirely slipped his mind, and this is not at all what she wants to be happening right now.

He looks back up at her with a sheepish smile. "Right. About that- I actually had a plan for this. And I happen to think it's pretty good plan. And despite the fact that I have never made one plan involving you that you haven't managed turn upside down just by breathing or smiling at me, or-" he sighs, "writing on my mirror . . . For some reason I _still_seem to keep making them. So I'd like to try and see if we can do this the way I planned, just once, just to know how it feels."

"And it involves a tuxedo?"

Ben grins. "And a dress. Not for me, for you. A tuxedo and a dress and two tickets to a New Year's Eve party that my boss called and offered me this morning when his wife woke up with the flu. And I took as a sign. With me so far?"

She nods.

"Okay so the plan goes something like this: You're going to get changed now, and I am going to take you out for New Year's Eve, and I'm going to kiss you at midnight. And from that point on I really don't intend to stop. And you can call that dating, or not dating, or, I don't know, hopscotch for all I care. But as far as I'm concerned come next year you're stuck with me and you're pretty much just going to have to figure out how to live with that." He exhales, calms a little, "Anyway, that's my plan. As I said, I think it's a good one and I'd like to try it, so if you could just humor me and go get changed before I kiss you again and this all goes to hell, I'd really appreciate it."

Leslie half laughs, half groans as what he just said sinks in, the fact that he actually intends to keep her waiting even a half second longer. "You can't be serious. You can't show up here and look like that and kiss me the way you did, and then tell me I have to wait. What on earth could you possibly want to wait for?"

"I want to take you home with me."

Her heart stops.

Ben moves back, reaching out to run his hands up into her hair and continues. "I want to do this right for once. I want to lay you out on my bed and finally _know_ exactly what you look like against my sheets rather than imagining it. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you on New Year's day and make you breakfast in the morning and know that I'm cooking you dinner that night. That's what I want to wait for. That's the memory I want."

"Dammit." She drops her head back against the wall defeat, and sighs, "Dammit. Now I have to go change."

He laughs, and grabs her wrist, to lead her over to her closet. "If it's any consolation, you've come extremely close to shaking my resolve here."

Just for that Leslie takes great pains to make sure he can see the lingerie she pulls out of her drawer (_there is nothing wrong with having at least one ridiculous scrap of nothing in your arsenal, even if it's just for you_), and strips in the hallway before she goes into the bathroom.

It gets her is an extremely satisfying groan, but nothing else.

Still, you really cannot blame a girl for trying.

**[]**

When she comes back out forty five minutes later with her hair and makeup done, in a basic black cocktail dress that isn't particularly flashy (_until she turns around_), but has the advantage of making her feel like her body looks amazing, Leslie is expecting at the least one very long appreciative look. There are certain things she simply feels she has a right to as a woman. And if she goes through the trouble of putting on perfume and makeup and a backless dress and killer heels and underwear whose sole purpose for existing is to be removed, being visibly objectified for three seconds by the guy she intends to sleep with at the end of the night is one of them.

She does not get it.

She does not get it because Ben does not look at her.

Because Ben is sitting on her futon, jacket shed, bowtie undone, shirtsleeves rolled up, staring at her wall. The stack of note cards from her kitchen table spread out on the floor around him.

Oh.

Leslie moves to stand in front of him, and finally he seems to register her presence. Looks up. Blinks.

"I'm on your wall."

She nods, "You are."

"I'm on your wall with Ann and Pawnee." His voice is strange. Dazed almost. Like he's waking up from some kind of dream.

"Ben, it's not-" and she about to tell him it's not what he thinks except she obviously has absolutely no clue what he thinks because now he's smiling, happy and broad.

"Ann and Pawnee and me," he ducks his head and laughs a little at the unintentional rhyme, then looks back up at her. "That's, um, that's a pretty exclusive club to be in."

Leslie nods more vigorously now, a gurgle of relieved laughter bubbling up inside her. "It is. It's-" she kneels down in front of him heedless of the notecard on 'clutter' she crumples with her shoe, and starts to explain. "I kept trying to tell you when you came in. That I've been thinking about this, too. I've been working on it. Trying to figure out- Ann said that what I got to tell you, the only things I got to tell you, was what I was willing to do and what would make me happy. So that's what I've been trying to figure out, what I can give you, and I can give a lot. I really think I can. I can give you-" She picks up one of the notecards, reads off of it- "My newspapers." Frowns. "No, that's not a good one." Looks around, for something better, lands on it, presses the card into his palm, "This. I could give you this if I had to. If there was no other way."

Ben looks down at the card that says 'Mayor' and starts to shake his head, put it aside. "No. Leslie, no. I can't ask- I would never-"

She puts her hands over his to stop him, brings it back and folds his fingers over it. "I know. I know you wouldn't. And don't you see? That's why I can. Because I know it would be the absolute _last_thing you would ever ask me. And it's not just that. Ben, I realized I don't want to do it without you. I think we're a good team. I think I'm better with you in my corner and I think if I ever run for Mayor I owe it to Pawnee to give them the best of me, so that means you." She brushes a kiss to his knuckles, "But I know that doing this would require changes for you too. Probably a lot of changes, some of which might not be easy or even feasible. So I'm going to keep working towards it, and I want it, but not if you can't do it with me. That's why it's down here. If it's not on the wall, then it's on the table. It's an option. In this case, a 'when all else fails break glass in case of emergency' option, but an option all the same."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, absorbing this, his eyes moving back and forth between their hands and the notecards and the wall, then back again. "So these are all-"

"Options. Things I'm willing to give you a say in."

"And the wall is?"

"The things that make me happy. I guess you could call them my caveats or my non-negotiable points. I have three, which I know is more than you, but I just- I need all of them."

Ben gets up from the futon and goes to stand in front of the wall for minute. Touches his fingers to his name. Then without saying a word, he goes over to the table, picks up three notecards and writes something down on of them. Comes back over. Leslie moves to stand beside him and read as he pins them up next to hers on the wall one by one.

'Paul and Diane'

'Harrison'

'Leslie'

"There. Now we're even. Actually you could even argue I have more, since Paul and Diane are technically two."

She laughs. "We'll count them as one."

"There you go then. Three each."

Leslie shakes her head, frowning, because as sweet as the gesture is, it's also a little ridiculous. "Ben, saying you want to keep Harrison isn't exactly the same thing as me saying I want to keep Pawnee."

He waggles his head back and forth in a funny 'yes' and 'no'. "I don't know. He can get _pretty_ crazy. Wait until you lose those shoes."

"Ben-"

"I'm sorry you're right," he gets serious again, and takes her hand, walking her back with him to the futon so they can sit down. Runs his thumb along her knuckles, gathering his thoughts, then says, "Look, I'm not going to lie and say that the fact you don't want to leave Pawnee isn't going to make things hard, but I'm also not going to pretend this is some kind of earthshaking revelation. You and Pawnee are, I don't know- kind of a package deal. It's like- Well, it's like Lauren and Jackson. Like if you meet a woman with a kid, you know that you don't get to have her without the kid too. And you know that up front, long before you ever get too involved, so you don't get to turn around and complain about the complications later. If you want to have the woman it means you want to have the kid, and if you're not willing to deal with that then you need to get out." Slipping his fingers between hers, he meets her eyes. "I think I've already made my stance on getting out pretty clear."

She smiles, "You have."

"Okay then. So-" he looks down at the mess of notecards on the floor, "What else you got?"

**[]**

They get lost in it. Let time slip through their fingers going through her notes, trading ideas and solutions intermixed with jokes and stories. Eventually Ben grabs a clean stack and starts adding his own to the pile. There is apparently a pretty serious fantasy baseball addiction that they may need to work on. He'll cook in her kitchen if he has to, but if he ever moves to Pawnee they're going to need to talk about a remodel. He's knows now he's never wants to run for office himself (_"I'd be miserable trying to deal with the reporters"_), but he honestly doesn't have the slightest clue whether he wants to keep advancing past the job he currently has or do something completely different.

Notecards become ideas, become possibilities, become dreams. Imagined futures they're constructing together. Variations on themes. Each one beautiful.

Ben moves to Pawnee and helps her run for Mayor and starts doing consults for any town submitting bond or tax revision applications to his old department. (_It would be a lot of travel again, but in shorter bursts_).

Leslie stays in the State Assembly and they keep living out of each other pockets in traded spaces. (_Not ideal, but they've got good role-models in Paul and Diane. It could certainly work._)

They wind up in a deep discussion of the finer points of the later option because they both agree it will be their reality for the foreseeable future (_she's splitting her time between towns for the next two years no matter what_). And eventually Leslie reveals her notecard listing Diane's advice, complete with the 'phone sex,' with no little embarrassment. Ben fingers it for a second, and then gets a funny look on his face like something just clicked, followed quickly by a truly disturbed grimace and a groan, "Oh dear lord."

"What?"

Shaking his head he reaches over to where his jacket is tossed over the back of the futon and pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times and then hands it to her, with an apologetic, "I wish I could tell you this was atypical for them."

It's an email from Paul. With a link for a video chat service and a simple message—_'Trust me. This is better. -Also, Diane informs me that we approve.'_

Leslie closes her eyes and moans, "Oh my god. They're incorrigible."

"Still think you've got more up on that wall than me?"

"Don't worry. Ann can definitely hold her own."

"See and now I'm worried," he retorts, plucking the phone back out of her hand. Goes to put it back in his pocket, and then stops, drops his head. "I don't believe it. I absolutely don't believe it."

"What?"

He holds up his phone, so she can see the time displayed on the screen. "We missed our dinner reservation. Do you know how many people I had to call-" Shakes his head back and forth with a sigh and an indulgent laugh, "I should have known. Every time. Every time I make a plan involving you, somehow, someway you flip everything completely upside down."

Leslie grins unrepentant, "Maybe you should start making plans about me messing up your plans. Then one of them is bound to work." Ben chuckles. Then an idea strikes her and she kneels up on the futon, she climbs into his lap, hiking up the slim skirt on her cocktail dress (_its already pretty rumpled anyway_), to deliberately expose the tops of her stockings as she straddles him. "But since I've _already_ruined this one, maybe we could just skip ahead to the part where you take me home and find out what I look like on your sheets?"

And because she is not above playing dirty when needed, she leans down and kisses him before he can say no, in a way that's a very obvious 'preview of coming attractions.' Adds, "Wouldn't kissing me at midnight be better if I'm naked? I bet there's bonus points for that. Maybe even a prize."

Ben drops his forehead to hers with a strained laugh that dissolves in a moan. Puts his hands on her hips and strokes his thumbs along her waist. "All right fine. You win. God you are still so completely impos-"

He only gets half the word out before he stops, realizing what he about to say. And it's the pause that kills her, if he had just said it, if it had just been an offhand thing she could have ignored it, but the fact he stopped, the fact he couldn't- She takes a deep shuddering breath.

"Leslie, look at me."

Obediently she lifts her head and the look in his eyes makes her breath catch and her heart well up.

Reaching out he swipes his thumb along her cheek bone. "You know I told you I wanted to just be friends."

"I know."

"You kissed me anyway."

She turns her head to press her mouth to his palm, completely unapologetic. "I did."

Ben lowers his hand to the curve of her neck. "Then I told you I needed time to think. And you turn around and tell me you love me"

Leslie smiles. "Because I do."

He shakes his head, and runs his fingers along the line of her collarbone "And when I ask you not to keep saying that, you go and write it on my mirror instead."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, you did."

"Yeah, I did."

He stills for a moment, deciding, then moves his hand to press it over her heart, and looks up at her. Takes a breath and says with a deliberate intensity she absolutely cannot mistake for anything other than what it is, "You are, without a doubt, completely impossible."

For a second she doesn't immediately respond, does breath or move or speak or do anything other than simply _be_happy, so incredibly, brilliantly happy. And at the pause, Ben starts to remove his hand, but then she's bringing hers up to cover it, press his palm to her heart like she could imprint him there, and finds her voice, picking up her cue to a routine they once did five long years ago and she still remembers like it was yesterday.

"But you love it."

Ben smiles. "I do. I really always have."

* * *

><p>-<em>fin-<em>


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